Convict Fenix

by Alan Brickett

Now Fenix was the one to hold his breath, this was the deciding point. He had plans if they gave him over to the chaos hags, but they had a meager chance of survival. Execution would be immediate, he could do nothing about that.

  But the fate he had planned for himself would be the best chance he had to survive.

  Cowl and the judges conferred, they spoke in whispers which none of the supreme beings could hear even with their universe spanning powers. At several points, some of the judges would glance at the chaos hags, the woman or Fenix himself.

  When the judges all turned back to face the court the chaos hags seated behind Menlyne all leaned forward again. The woman stood quietly, serenely waiting on the pronouncement. The rest of the court was already bored, many of them working through their extended consciousness on their own affairs in their private realms and planes.

  Cowl spoke in its distinct voice.

  “We acknowledge that the chaos hags require punishment as a substitute for execution. We also agree that such punishment is merited. The court will not command summary execution upon the criminal Fenix.”

  He waited, now it was the moment he needed.

  “However.” Cowl said.

  “However!” Cowl had to say again over the subtle hisses coming from the group of chaos hags, even Menlyne looked to have lost some composure. Their anger was quickly pulled under control when Cowl made a subtle movement with the wooden hammer towards the gavel.

  Cowl continued without moving the hammer back away from the court instrument.

  “The criminal Fenix will receive punishment befitting his crimes. Both crimes and not one over the other although the court judges that both crimes will be accounted for by this sentencing.”

  Fenix felt the rush of adrenaline move through his body, he had it!

  “Fenix is hereby sentenced to the highest Echelon Prison with no chance of communication or release to the outside realms.”

  Day 1…

  “I expected something… more.”

  The deep masculine voice held undertones of wicked humor.

  He looked up—in his thoughts, he identified himself only as “he,” because he could not remember his name. His mind was as blank as the black marble he lay on, cold and hard. He could smell dampness, a faint hint of sulfur, and the floral scent of someone else, a lovely smell among the unwashed bodies.

  He blinked.

  “This cannot be all of them. The sky churned! It was the portent of a great coming, an arrival of legendary proportions.”

  This was another voice that croaked and creaked through the words. Words in another language. He did not know what style, but he could understand it, and he knew it was different from the language spoken by the first voice.

  White nails, trimmed neatly around the fingertips, were a stark contrast to the gray skin of the fingers. Four of them and a thumb, joined by the hand to a forearm the same lacquered gray color. While leathery and malleable, this skin looked to be made of flexible rock.

  The arm was well muscled and toned, with no fat. Why this was important, he also did not know. His gaze followed the limb up to an orange sleeve.

  He recognized it as his own arm.

  The thought startled him.

  “I will not allow a competitor to arrive unchallenged!” The rasping voice had gotten several octaves higher.

  The first voice spoke again, this time in the language of the second voice. The sound and texture of the words sounded strange coming from that inhuman throat.

  “Calm yourself, Sir Page. We will find the truth of this shortly.”

  For a moment, he considered how it was that he knew it to be an inhuman voice. Perhaps it was the echo of the words, sound over sound, from wherever the one who spoke was.

  He looked down at his body. The orange material continued, forming a tunic, and the color was stark against the unrelieved gray of his skin and the black stone on which he knelt.

  He couldn’t remember why he was kneeling there. Nevertheless, he did know that if he didn’t gather his wits, and soon, it could be a problem.

  “Recheck them,” the strange voice snarled.

  The statement was plural, so he was not alone.

  He looked to his right and saw over a dozen other beings in sackcloth. They were all lumped together as if they had landed in a pile on this wet marble platform. Their garments were a dull brown, the material dirty and muddied.

  Very different from his own spotless garments, which included long pants of the same bright orange material.

  A new voice intruded, coming from in front of him, where he had heard the others. His sense of direction was slowly returning. His sensitive hearing also picked up murmurs and conversations further away. There were many beings out there.

  Why did he have such good hearing? He could practically focus on individual heartbeats.

  “Yes, master. Of course, master. But there is nothing,” it squealed and whined, high pitched like a child’s voice, but with the timber of an obsequious wretch.

  It hurt his ears.

  “Are you sure?” the first voice echoed with menace and a desire to torture anything it could.

  He needed something to call himself since he was marked out from the rest in his orange outfit he must be different. He would go with Outcast until he could remember more.

  Outcast lifted his torso up so that although he was kneeling, he could reel about in a straight way. This brought his eyes forward to see the speakers themselves, and although he considered that the sight would be a shock to most beings, he was somehow able to accept the gathering without surprise.

  In the forefront stood a large humanoid on his two backward bent and fur-covered legs.

  As he wore no pants, it was apparent the humanoid was male. It appeared as if he was quite proud of being naked to the world. The fur thinned out from the matted length on the legs and around the waist to a light covering on the well-muscled torso and arms of the monstrous man-thing.

  The skin tone was a dark red hue beneath the fur, which judging from the overall purple tinge, must have been a blue color.

  Easily over eight feet tall, the being was crouched lightly, with a spring in the legs that spoke volumes in the echoing caverns of his mind about how adept and surefooted the creature was. Eyes of cyan with purple slits peered out from a mane of dark blue hair.

  In the being’s outstretched hand, palms up, it was holding what seemed to be some kind of mating gone horribly wrong between a large fowl and a reptile.

  It was this abomination that squawked and squeaked through the chapped beak it likely called a mouth. “It’s arm! It's arm! There is a device there!”

  The big furred being gestured with its prominent chin, eyes glaring menacingly, and two other, different, beings stepped past it. They looked like the general humanoids Outcast was used to, although he wasn’t sure why he should be used to anything at this point.

  They were, of course, shorter, perhaps average height for their own race, with dirty tan skin and ragged hair on their heads. One of them grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back to sit on his heels, his shins pressed to the hard stone.

  The second grabbed his left wrist and pushed up the orange sleeve.

  The clothes had for some reason marked him, made him the focus of attention rather than the mewling wretches to his right. He was curious, though, so twisted his head in a lazy move, nothing sharp or fast. For all the world, he had to appear non-threatening, this he knew.

  On his upper bicep, twisted in among the solid form of his flesh, there was a tangle of golden strands.

  On the other hand, instead, what appeared to be strands; there could have been something more solid beneath the surface.

  “Oh my, and what is that, Torn? Do you know?” This voice was sultry, feminine, and husky.

  It spoke of erotic desires that whispered in the particular places where such things would be granted. The voice carried warmth and seduction in its every nuance, wholesome depravity underscoring every s
yllable.

  He couldn’t help himself. His attention was wrenched over to look at the speaker, but that, too, felt right, it was the expected result of such a voice.

  She was beautiful, so intoxicatingly beautiful that he knew it was by design. Full lips, full body, robust hips all draped in skin the color of pale red satin. Her eyes were a stark yellow with dilated pupils that invited one’s gaze to peer into them.

  She wore only a gossamer scarf, which wound about her limbs, entwined between her legs, and draped over her bosom like a lover’s caress. Every sway of her hips with her sultry, slow steps described the wonders she held.

  The artful play of her long tail added nuance to her words. “It looks valuable, does it not?”

  “It does, or he does, you ignorant hag?” The crackling drew him to look toward the second of the original voices that had spoken. This being was a polar opposite to the embodied lust and sheer desire of the female he had just gazed upon.

  The creature was wizened, it appeared old, but its looks did not betray its exact age; to do so, he believed, would require dried-out bones covered in dust. No, this creature was far older than its form, and it was vain if he had it right.

  Rich green robes cinched with a golden sash at the waist wrapped the body of an old man. His, or her, blue skin that wrinkled like a dried-out fruit. Great folds of it pressed together around the neck and jowls as it spoke.

  “He is a fine specimen to look upon, I’ll give you that. Perhaps he has a rich vitality upon which I can gorge myself?” It licked lips that were cracked with age and scabrous with a disease.

  Pale orbs fixed on him with intensity at odds with their apparent cataracts. Both of the other two creatures gave similar looks of disgust to this being, there and gone again before it noticed, or chose to see Outcast expected.

  Of the three, this was the one most problematic to him right at the moment. Somehow, he knew that his very ability to draw another breath depended on how it went with these three.

  Whether they let him live or die would decide the end of his story.

  **

  Khanton was a minor player here.

  He knew it, and the greater ones over there by the platform knew it too. The only reason he was here was that he looked after the Festering Warrens and the mines, keeping the weakened and primal creatures contained so they were not an annoyance, whenever he could, of course.

  He was in agreement with the Old Man Page this day.

  The arrivals portal had churned; the storms had been great.

  Always before, there had been a sign of a powerful new arrival, a convict of such power that it required significant effort to pass through the planes and the Prison walls to bring them there. Such a display was the only reason these three came out at all. Usual arrivals were of no consequence to them, although Old Man Page would come more often for his morsels.

  The blue-skinned being terrified him.

  Khanton shuddered; his yellowish skin shriveled up and then let go, probably an unusual sight to most humanoids, but for him it was natural. So was the resulting spray of slick and pungent sweat that lingered in the air around him, a self-defense mechanism for his people.

  Whoever they were—his people that is. Like everyone else, he had no memories.

  With him were a dozen of his own henchmen, handpicked to be the toughest survivors he had left within this place. Nevertheless, even with the added muscle, he was not going any closer to the scene playing out on the arrivals platform.

  The three beings already there would be able to handle him and his men in moments, and it was likely that for their impertinence their suffering would be long and terrible.

  Torn, that was the name of the big monster.

  Other creatures in the Echelon Prison were more abundant and stronger, but he was the tallest, and physically strongest humanoid Khanton knew of. Torn was in service to the Warlock who also allowed Khanton to be a servant in his impromptu kingdom on the northwest edge of the Prison.

  Khanton felt no specific loyalty; no one did for anyone. They were not here because they were going to be good little convicts, listening to anyone, no.

  Here you ruled by power.

  On the other hand, in the case of the Seductress of a thousand complex desires, you ruled by being useful.

  She was dangerous and capable in her own right, Khanton admitted to himself. The creature with long midnight-black hair, wearing a cloth that covered nothing and teased at revealing all, had found her niche in this harsh place and kept it with a tenacity and ferocity he admired—almost as much as he admired her striking sexuality.

  But Old Man Page was the most dangerous; he did not send a servant to meet new arrivals, he always came on his own. Word was that none of his servants had enough free will to be able to make the kinds of decisions required here. Having seen the creature at work, Khanton could well believe that.

  He repressed another shudder and hoped it was not going to happen again today.

  The sight of the orange smock worried him. That it came with the raging tempest, which preceded the Being deposited on the platform, meant he must be the reason for the churn and storms.

  The other rabble was killers, murderers, rapists, and more.

  They would not have been sentenced here otherwise. But, to be clad in orange meant he had been in high security for trial and sentencing—he had been very dangerous to either himself or others.

  That meant power.

  The reason the three had come, for themselves or their masters, was to assess this power and determine if they should let it live, use it, or kill it.

  He resprayed a slight mist over himself; rolls of sagging flesh covered him down to the several feet he used to move around. He could leave quickly on a slimy trail if he needed to.

  If they decided to fight over the prize.

  It had only happened four times, but each time he had left before witnessing the victor. The first time these three had fought, there had been a fourth member who never returned.

  Old Man Page had looked good for a few more arrivals after that.

  Less old, less wrinkled, before he faded back down into the decrepit form he most often held to. In subsequent battles, the other two had not lost, as evidenced by their continued existence, but the orange convicts had never been seen again, either.

  Not that it was always a fight.

  Sometimes they just agreed based on some sort of barter system.

  Sometimes their barter cost him dearly in the form of a considerable quantity of metal and ores from his mines. Well, instead his servants did the actual mining, for the Warlock. The Warlock also terrified him, but at least he could understand an authority that needed a workforce.

  They provided precious few metals and gems for what managed as a society in the Prison.

  Sometimes in the barter, strange requests were made, for even more bizarre reasons he could not fathom. Khanton had been running things for so long now he could not even count the years. Time operated strangely here, completely repetitive and with no change to seasons; even the weather was regular.

  So this arrival of new convicts, which happened weekly and sometimes more often, wasn’t particularly special, except for the storm and the orange.

  He thought the great ones who had appeared at the arrival argued for the sake of posturing. Or perhaps just for the social need to show everyone that they still existed. It was the way of the Prison; power, or the appearance of power, kept you alive. Even out here in the relatively safe areas of the northwestern edge.

  Perhaps it was less safe today.

  **

  “Be certain.” The big man also had horns, Outcast could see them under the thick hair that grew from a prominent brow.

  The being was commanding the creature he held in his palm.

  The strange little being squawked and squealed its reply.

  “I am certain master Torn. The man-thing is not potent. Something it wears might be, or something it carries. I can sense no g
reat power from the being, he is a blight on my senses. Please, master, be merciful to this poor creature!”

  So the man, which Outcast thought of as some kind of goat man, a satyr, but a much bigger one than he had ever seen, was named Torn. How did he know that he was some kind of satyr? His head was jumbled, confused. He knew that he could fight if he had to, but he also knew that in his current state it would be a far cry from his usual skill.

  These beings were powerful, of that he was sure. He would not be able to outmatch them. Who knew how many more waited in the crowd a little below the marble platform. Or what that strangely dressed bearded man sitting on a pile of rocks on the opposite side might be capable of?

  He had just noticed him—a quiet heartbeat, a placid expression, and muddy brown eyes.

  It indeed was a strange place he found himself in now. He took the chance to look around while Torn shook the small creature and demanded it “be clearer.”

  The marble ledge he was on stuck out over the side of a cliff; he could just see over the edge from where he knelt. The drop was abrupt and fell into an impossible sky of swirling energies, vortices, and maelstroms of colorful clouds colliding with tempests of energized winds while roaring whirlpools sucked away in between.

  Able to look around now that he was upright in the minions' grip he saw that the ledge spread away from the platform toward what he took to be a rising sun, although how such a flaming orb could exist in this other space was a bit beyond him at the moment.

  To his right, the terrain dropped down into a rocky path that twisted out of sight beneath an escarpment that, like the ledge he was on, seemed to hover in thin air. The trail wound away for easily a mile, so the escarpment before him must have been several miles wide where it joined onto the black rock platform. To his left, another path rose up and then abruptly dropped away out of sight.

  He assumed it went around the other side of the escarpment because it, too, appeared to go on for a mile or so before its drop.

  A monolith, a towering construct seemingly without a seam, dominated the large expanse before him. The sun threw the shadow of the monstrosity off to his right. Some part of his mind allocated the movement as normal east to west, and that placed him on the far northwest of wherever he was.