by J. C. Fiske
“Then what?” Nora asked.
“Then, marry a girl as pretty as you,” Gisbo said. At this Nora burst into laughter.
“You’re a good boy, Gisbo. Come on, let’s go for a walk. It’s time I introduce you to my friend,” Nora said, and hand in hand, mother and son walked into the wintery forests of the Soarian mountain range.
The memory faded.
“Mom . . .” Gisbo said, smiling, tears in his eyes. There was a knock on the door. Gisbo had time to wipe the tears out of his eyes before someone’s face peeked in.
“It’s time, Gisbo,” Perry said.
“Has he come yet?” Gisbo asked.
“No, Jackobi has not shown himself,” Perry said.
“If he hasn’t arrived by now, he’s not going to. Fighting in a ring in front of people was never his style. He has a vendetta, his own battle to fight. We’ll need someone else, and I know you big shots have the final say, but might I make a suggestion? Someone to fight by my side?” Gisbo asked.
“Of course, Gisbo. If anything, you should have the final say. You will need to work together. Do you wish me to summon Rolce?” Perry asked. Gisbo shook his head.
“No, I’d like to bring my Dad,” Gisbo said. Perry shook his head.
“It cannot be done. He is the head of our strike force. He’s too important to expose in the arena,” Perry said.
“But I’m not, is that what you’re saying?” Gisbo asked.
“Not at all. His generation, our generation, is passed. It’s time for a new generation of Renegade to take up the sword,” Perry said.
“I’m going in that ring to kill. Rolce is no killer. He will be needed to protect, outside the ring. I need someone else . . .” Gisbo said.
Thunder sounded around them as the two young Renegades followed Perry down the hallway. Gisbo expected to walk out into an arena covered with dark, ominous clouds and lightning bolts, but he was met with a bright, shining sun, unusual for such a late autumn day. The thunder he had heard was not thunder at all, but the roar of the crowd. Everyone was in attendance. Everyone had their eyes on him and his teammate.
“You ready?” Gisbo asked.
“To do what we must? Of course,” Rake Lokin replied. Gisbo smiled and smacked him on the back.
“Must you do that?” Rake asked.
“Sorry, hey, I was thinking. We could go out there and die and you’ll never get a chance to repay me for punching you. Why not do it now?” Gisbo said.
“The time still isn’t right,” Rake said.
“You mean . . .” Gisbo started.
“Believe me, when the time is right, your nose will know before you do,” Rake said.
“Rake, you’re a scary dude,” Gisbo said. “You ready?”
“Always, and Gisbo?” Rake said.
“Yeah?” Gisbo asked.
“Thank you for being my friend, and just being you,” Rake said.
Gisbo smiled and smacked him on the shoulder.
“Must you do that?” Rake asked again.
“Sorry,” Gisbo said.
“Let’s go, it’s time,” Perry said as he led Rake and Gisbo up to the center of the arena where Narroway stood with two cloaked fighters.
“If Chieftain Lamik doesn’t arrive soon to agree to the nature of this match, your team will forfeit. I hope you realize this,” Narroway said to the cloaked Strifes, folding his arms.
“That won’t be necessary,” a Strife said. The two men revealed themselves as none other than Lamik Strife, along with his son, Malik Strife.
“It is . . .” Narroway started.
“It is my right, my privilege, to be in this match. If I broke the rules, I’d be dead, wouldn’t I?” Lamik asked. Narroway stood silently.
“Renegades, remove your cloaks,” Narroway said. Gisbo and Rake both disrobed and immediately, Gisbo thrust out a finger and pointed it at Chieftain Lamik.
“Assface Senior . . .” Gisbo muttered, moving his finger over to Malik. “Assface Junior . . .”
Malik said nothing, had no flashy comeback. His eyes only searched the arena, trying unsuccessfully to find someone. Lamik cocked a stern glance down at his son.
“Focus. Forget about her; she’s gone,” Lamik said.
“Trouble in paradise?” Gisbo asked, and again, Malik lowered his head. Gisbo didn’t like it at all. Did he and Nina have a fight? He scanned the audience as well, and she was nowhere in sight. He had a sinking feeling he couldn’t shake. He was not prepared for this version of Malik.
“This is a no-holds barred, all out match. Anything goes, except stepping out of the ring. Full attributes and weapons are allowed, along with your Boons. Understood? Renegades, to your lines, Strifes, to your lines,” Narroway said.
At that same moment, a blond girl with the ability to fly soared up to the tallest mountain peak, far above Heaven’s Shelter. The cold air bit at her fair skin. Her hair, longer than a year ago, flowed and whipped about in the cold air, coming apart at the seams, leaving bald spots.
It was happening again, for reasons unbeknownst to her. Her hair was falling out.
Snow began to fall, sprinkling all about her feet and covering the ground as she walked to the highest crest of the mountainside. She shivered, both from the cold and from her nerves, feeling the icy wind bite at the bald spots.
The girl had no one. No mother, no father, no one. All she had now were scars on her hands and a broken heart. She had never met her father, but she knew all about him. A prisoner in the darkest depths of Glaknabrade. She was evil’s seed and her mind was now crazed beyond belief from thoughts of a boy, of a future of them together, happy, with a daughter and a son. He looked so much like the dad. She sniffled and felt tears well up in the corners of her eyes. She thought of the other boy, the one that reminded her so much of her destined love. She had ruined it, ruined everything, by not waiting for him. She had instead fell for the boy who reminded her so much of him, his dark reflection.
And yet, who could she talk to? No one tried to befriend her. All she had was him, and he shunned her and now, he gave his love, his kisses, to another far more beautiful, far more kind than she. This only added to her pain, added more cracks to her already broken heart. And now, even the other boy, the boy in the mirror, had abandoned her too.
The memories, the visions of happiness had to stop, but above all else, she had to kill the hope. The misery was real, but the hope brought her the real pain.
The girl who could fly stepped up to the crest of the mountainside, looking at the snowflakes as they hit her warm skin and melted down her arm, dying, and changing. That’s all life was: falling snowflakes, all different, some falling further than others, but all with the same fate . . .
Peace was all she wanted now. The girl who could fly looked down only to see a void of swirling whiteness, a blanket of everlasting peace beckoning her. On the swirling wind, she heard a distant, muffled cheer, and she heard his name rise above the wind, causing her to shake.
“Gisbo! Gisbo! Gisbo!” the crowd cheered.
“I love you, Gisbo. I always have, I always will, and I’ll never know why . . . Goodbye,” Nina said.
And with that, the girl who could fly let herself fall into the swirling white void.
A snowflake gone, lost like many, well before their time.
Elsewhere, in the deepest parts of Heaven’s Shelter’s forest, so deep the tallest tree branches interlocked, strangling each other and shutting out all light, the bloodiest battle of the Renegade-Strife war took place more than a decade ago. It was said that there was so much death, so much blood, that nature itself was affected. The plants soaked up the essence charged fluids of the most powerful warriors on the planet and they grew out of control, leaving this place full of unnatural, twisted life, and darkness known forever as The Macaba Obaroso, a Naforian word that meant, “Wailing Death.”
When the wind passed through the spaces of the tightly interlocked tree branches, it let out a ghostly, horrifying, cry.
A lone Renegade and Strife stood across from one another, well away from the cheers and cries from the stadium. Their battle would have no witnesses, no cheering, no pats on the back. This was a battle of continuation, for the future. Only one would continue the legacy of the Fox of Blades, whose spirit Jackobi felt around this place even now. He was sure that Grayn felt it as well.
Words were unnecessary; they were meaningless. Only action spoke true in the world of the Shininja, of the assassin. To them, a fist clenched around a dagger spoke louder and longer than a thousand words.
In a burst of yellow, Grayn ignited his essence and Jackobi did the same. Jackobi looked upon Grayn’s face and long, perfectly smooth, white hair. In another life, another time, they could have been brothers. This thought didn’t linger long. Jackobi’s whole life was cold, hard, emotionless reasoning, but no longer. He did what his father could never do . . . He unleashed his anger, rage, frustration, and he controlled them as precisely as any dagger.
Foxblade’s chest exploded in front of Jackobi’s mind’s eye again. He felt his father’s blood sting his eyes and splash upon his uniform, staining it forever. Jackobi had left it unwashed. Now, with one smell, and allowing one tear to fall, Jackobi was taken back to that moment of passion. With gritted teeth, and without repressing one feeling, Jackobi did something uncommon to a Shininja, surprising even Grayn.
He charged . . .
Gisbo stood in the arena next to a man he would now trust with his life, Rake Lokin. They were about to take on the best of what the Strifes had to offer, a father and son duo that wished to change the world to meet their standards of inhumane, unnatural repression of the human spirit. They wanted a world ruled by one sided force, powered by crushing religious and political intolerance. The two boys in blue would give their lives to protect against that . . .
“Assface Junior is mine. You take the old man,” Gisbo said.
“Gladly,” Rake said.
“I’m thinking we keep them apart, finish our opponents quickly, then regroup and double team the one remaining. If you’re in a jam, call out for help,” Gisbo said.
“You mean, if you’re in a jam, you call out for help,” Rake said.
“Rake, was that another joke?” Gisbo asked.
“Close enough,” Rake said.
“You know what, on second thought, this has been a long time coming between me and Assface. Please, even if you finish off Lamik first, leave me with this guy. Don’t interfere if you can help it,” Gisbo said.
“I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything,” Rake said.
“Now, to wait for the word go,” Gisbo said. Narroway stood, realizing that this would be his final order. Upon dropping his hand, a fight would start, and the world would be forever changed . . . if only he knew by just how much . . .
He walked up to Gisbo and Rake.
“Are you boys ready?” Narroway asked.
“I can’t help but feel that something bad’s coming. Like, nothing’s ever going to be the same, ever again. Narroway, when this war starts, how bad is it gonna get?” Gisbo asked.
“About as bad as it can. Got the will for it, Renegade?” Narroway asked. Gisbo smiled. He could never understand how Narroway knew exactly what to say to set his heart racing.
“Damn right I do,” Gisbo said. Narroway smiled and nodded, then walked backward away from the fighters.
“Renegades ready?” Narroway asked. Gisbo and Rake gave the go ahead and the crowd simmered down. “Strifes ready?” The father and son team gave their signal.
“Then without further ado, BE….” Narroway started, but was cut off mid-word.
Something had jumped into the arena.
A hunched, hulking something that may or may not at one point have been someone they all knew made its way forward, dripping. With each step that carried him, the thing had more trouble standing. It wobbled like a drunk and sprayed out a vile, black liquid every which way. The thing raised its head and the sun cast onto a slightly recognizable face, a face only family could recognize. Narroway’s heart skipped and he felt his mouth open and his breath stop.
“Karm? Brother?” Narroway mumbled.
“Peace, brother, peace, peace comes for us all! Finally, I have peace!” Karm said, swaying in place. Now Narroway could see where the constant dripping came from. Every pore, every hole in his brother’s face, was dripping black, Drakeness tainted blood.
He was dying . . .
“Brother, I . . .” Narroway started.
“We are all brothers now! Don’t you see? My hands, my feet, they are no longer my own. They only move for his purpose. Don’t you see? Peace, brother, peace! No more pain, no more suffering! He’s . . . he’s coming! The true king, the morning and evening star, he’s coming!” Karm paused, noticing Gisbo, and what could be called joy lit up his face.
“There! There he is! He’s, the doorway, the doorway, it’s right there! It’s right there!” Karm said, pointing at Gisbo, and with a huge, black toothed smile, the Warlord of Oak County toppled over.
Narroway ran to his brother and caught him, staring at his awful, twisted form. Karm was already turning into a Drakeling, the destiny of anyone unable to overcome the Drakeness. But this was an unnatural, incomplete form. The answer to Narroway’s unspoken question came as dozens of empty cartridges containing the Black High fell from his pockets and bounced about the ring.
“What is this, brother? You’re speaking nonsense! How? How did you get this way? What is the state of Oak County, how . . .” Narroway asked.
“You ask how when you should be asking . . . why?” Karm said, smiling once more. “The doorway, he’s the doorway, and I’m, I’m the key.”
Karm’s features tightened as if something beneath his skin was trying to get out.
“Not . . . exactly,” Karm said, but his voice was of another’s, one thought long gone.
“Impossible . . .” Narroway said. Tears fell from his brother’s eyes.
“Brother, I’ve been nothing but a failure, nothing but a fool. What I’ve done . . . what is about to be… You were the strength I always looked to, always wanted, but could never, could never have. You weren’t the enemy, you never were; I was. I was . . . brother, forgive me, I . . .” Karm started, his normal voice returning. He then gagged fiercely and Narroway couldn’t believe what he saw.
Bone white human fingers, crawled out of Karm’s mouth like an albino tarantula, clawing at the sides of the Warlord’s mouth, cutting off his final words. Like a puppet on a string, Karm jerked upright. From his face all the way down to his toes, like a butterfly breaking free of its cocoon, Karm’s body was ripped away and thrown asunder, leaving only a gateway of blue energy shaped like Karm.
Gisbo froze, staring through the human shaped gateway, seeing the blood red sky and the black, thundering clouds across a desert wasteland for the second time. Somehow, the Reath was open, and through the doorway, a man stepped through, a face from the past. Deja vu struck Gisbo like a fist as the man placed a foot upon the granite floor of the arena and pulled the rest of his body out just before the gateway vanished.
Purah, the betrayer, was back in their world.
“Impossible . . . Why do people say such a thing, even upon witnessing it with their own ears and eyes? Even now, as I stand before you, you don’t trust your very senses? Why?” Purah asked. Gisbo charged up his essence, but Narroway halted him.
“Gisbo, wait, don’t make a move,” Narroway said.
“What!? Why?” Gisbo asked.
“How have you come back?” Narroway asked. “Only the Man-Phoenix can . . .”
“Only the Man-Phoenix can release me, yes, but the blood of his ancestor is in his family, even you, and has traces of the Phoenix. Karm has served his purpose. Unlike you, he was easily corrupted. The first step is complete,” Purah said, sliding a hand through his thick, brown hair. He looked at Gisbo.
“So we’ve come to this, have we, Gisbo? The part where the villain makes himse
lf known and shares his master plan with you. I’ve done it before, haven’t I? I lead you along through the fantasy of saving the day, but not this time. For now, all you Renegades need to know is this: you are in the way. You are beyond hope, beyond Drakearon’s salvation. You cannot begin to understand the peace we offer this world. You are the villains,” Purah said, smiling.
Without a word, Gisbo charged with his Tantos, leaving Purah to block as they pushed their strength against one another’s.
“How did I know you would be the first? Like a puppet on a string . . . Have you learned nothing? Now, let’s get this started,” Purah said. Barely missing a fatal blow from Narroway, Purah raised a ringed hand to the sky. A blast of lightning fell and hit the staging area, cracking it in two and sending all fighters flying from the ring; all except Gisbo, who managed to hold his ground, taking the blast through smoldering, blackened clothes. Purah watched, surprised.
“You are a glutton for punishment, Gisbo. You’ve made my job a whole lot simpler. Thank you,” Purah said.
“I’ll make sure that’s the last thing you ever say,” Gisbo said, throwing Purah off, ready to charge, only to find he couldn’t. Everything he did felt as if he were moving in slow motion. He had felt this way once before, in Foxblade’s gravitational barrier, but nothing like this.
“What . . . what did you do?” Gisbo asked, his words feeling like they crawled out of his mouth.
“Look around you,” Purah said, sheathing his Talon sword. Gisbo tried turning his head, feeling as if a hundred hands were holding it in place. He saw the yellowish tinted field around him. Every Renegade pounded away at it, unable to break through.
“This is a product of my own design. I’ve expelled all of my power for pure defense, but not just any defense: total safety. This energy field comes from gravity itself. With every strike, their energy is sucked into the field, making it even stronger. The harder they push, the stronger it becomes. This is my power, and thus I am unaffected, free to move. You, Gisbo, are right where we need you. Karm was right, you are the door, but so was he. Take a look at that sky, the sun, the blue, the things you take for granted every day. Take it in, drink from it, for soon, it will be no more,” Purah said. He walked forward, unsheathed his sword, and sliced off Gisbo’s headband with a quick snip of his sword, letting it fall to the ground and leaving Gisbo’s exposed Drakeness mark dripping. With each drip, it spread across the ring. Purah then sliced open Gisbo’s arm from his wrist up to his elbow, as blood poured from the wound mixing with the Drakeness in a neat, large puddle on the arena floor.