Convict Fenix

by Alan Brickett

  Torn moved on past the large stone with its writing to a much smaller obelisk. The Seductress observed him as he reached up to unlatch the amulet he wore and then placed it into a slot in the rock.

  Writhing purple energy leaped out of the seemingly simple obelisk, and tentacles wrapped around his limbs and body in an instant. Several others whipped out and clung to the minions, who stood stoically and stiffly beside the more significant being.

  The magical energy brightened and then pulled them all in to disappear within the stone.

  No smoke nor scorch mark marred the ground where the giant man had stood, so he assumed that the magic was not harmful. Some part of him could postulate that it was transportation of some kind, a means to get here to the pinnacle and back wherever they came from quickly.

  He couldn’t quite see this astounding creature, the Seductress, making a long journey on foot just to receive new visitors, after all. He fully expected that people came to her, not the other way around.

  The sultry female spoke to him as he observed her. One finger waved in the direction of Old Man Page as she spoke.

  “Watch now, this is something you likely want to remember.”

  Wizened as it was, the new arrivals were still steeped in terror at the blue thing’s approach. It had moved much closer, and it then reached out to swat at the men and women who huddled together. At its urging, they parted, forming two groups, then three, then four. It separated them, all the while mumbling to itself and looking the beings up and down with those blind eyes.

  He wasn’t quite sure why she wanted him to pay attention to that; separating out what it wanted seemed to be entirely in character. What happened next told him exactly why she wanted him to watch closely.

  The blue being had made two groups, one composed of those it had selected, and the second, more significant, a grouping of those it had not. But it did not sort the last inmate it came to into either group.

  This last inmate it brought out of the larger group to come stand closer. All the while, it mouthed its gums, its lips made a wet and loud sound.

  The blue of its skin paled slightly when it got closer to the inmate it had chosen, eventually becoming the color of a sun-brightened sky. Then its lips distended, the plump sulky pout grew more substantial, and it opened its mouth wide. The prisoner was frozen as if mesmerized, unable to move or get out of the way as the grossly exaggerated mouth swept down.

  Old Man Page seemed to rise up from his usual stoop, such that his mouth could drop down over the convict.

  Fenix could hear faintly muffled screams from inside the fleshy embrace when it started to spasm as if Old Man Page was suckling on the prisoner. The volume of flesh covering the being was undulating in waves, and Old Man Page moaned with avaricious pleasure. It took only seconds, but Fenix learned what he needed to know.

  The seductress had been right, the blue-skinned being was very dangerous indeed.

  Its lips lifted from around the meal they had just succored, peeling back like a flower opening to the sun. Old Man Page dropped from his exaggerated height as he reformed again to the posture of a stooped old thing.

  What dropped out of the closing maw that had been Page’s lips was no longer recognizable as anything but a withered husk. Even as it fell without a sound, without any sense of slime or spit, from the mouth that had sucked it dry, it fell into dust.

  **

  Khanton watched with utter revulsion as Old Man Page did its thing.

  Every time there were new arrivals, the weird being treated itself. The power to capture its prey and absorb their Vitae was always the same. Not one convict had ever resisted, the more powerful looking ones, and even some of those who had arrived in orange.

  This new one could count himself lucky that Page had decided he was not worthwhile.

  His own men stood well back, not willing to get anywhere near Page after such a scene. Khanton was just glad that whatever happened to the poor wretches chosen by Page was not something he would see every day.

  The blue thing gestured and urged its chosen few to precede it toward the pillar behind the monolith. They huddled together in fear and somehow moved in a coordinated way as if hypnotized to do so.

  Khanton did not doubt that was so.

  Once Page had them all gathered close, it raised one hand with the teleportation stone that Khanton would dearly like to get. The other hand swept out, the skin stretched and grew long like a blue tentacle, and wrapped around the group, squeezing them closer to itself.

  The stone was placed into the pedestal, and with a sparkle of magical energies, the whole group and Page were enveloped and whisked away to wherever it was that Page called its own.

  Khanton slithered around to look back at where Quelina stood closer to the new prisoner.

  He kept back out of respect, and not a little fear of her powers. She looked over the still kneeling form of the prisoner. Identified as he had been with the sigil, Khanton could barely credit that even he had a strong memory of fear for the name Aurelian.

  Even the voice that was in his own mind, silent to everyone else, would not repeat the full name used by the Seductress.

  “So, you are one of hers. I am tempted, strange man, sorely tempted to venture your presence among my flock and see what manner of surprises you could bring.” The whore master stepped lightly in a slow walk around him, her eyes appraising and her manner cautious, but also fancifully curious.

  Khanton thought that perhaps her curiosity and frivolous nature were what had gotten her caught in the first place.

  For himself, he eschewed any such strange behavior, always careful—that was how to survive. Of course, he was also here, so somewhere along the line, he had not been careful enough. All the more reason to be sure of every action he took.

  So he kept back and waited for her final decision.

  “Hummm.” The sound vibrated through the air, it caused a sensation akin to arousal even in Khanton, whose species’ sexual intercourse was very different from that of humanoids. The new convict stiffened at the allure, in both body and groin.

  “But no. I think that if you are to be interesting, it will be if you are left to your own devices. So let us see, strange man, what it is that you end up doing in this place.”

  With that, Quelina ended her slow circle and abruptly set off for the pedestal.

  Her hand brushed against the nearly sheer cloth of her wrapping and came out with her own teleport stone. In moments, she was also gone, whisked away by the magic. They said that the teleportation stones had been placed around the Prison millennia after it was built.

  Khanton did not know, nor did he care, unless he could use them.

  Back to more immediate concerns, he gestured with his sludgy yellow limb, and the men with him darted off to collect the sackcloth convicts. Khanton reserved himself for the discussion with the one in orange. If the new prisoner objected, then he would test him.

  If he objected strenuously, then he would let the strange man-thing go and do whatever it could to survive.

  **

  Now that the big dogs had left, it was the bottom feeders’ turn, and Outcast felt those were ones he could handle if it came to it.

  The passive demeanor he had been holding was released, his body relaxed into a posture more suited to sitting on his knees than being in a dead run to bow and scrape. The apparent change was noted by the strange slug-like being with yellow slimy skin that was coming closer with two of its cohorts.

  He settled back, resting on his toes and knees while returning to an upright posture.

  He didn’t glance at the torn skin over the strange armlet that had probably saved his life. To show further weakness now would just make him lower than the scum that ran the general population of this Prison.

  The ones who approached him now were like the bullies in the yard, those strong enough to be organized and hold others in line.

  How did he even know this?

  It seemed the knowledge came fr
om deeply rooted skills and basic instincts for survival. They indeed were not memories, it was like he had lived, or even been raised in, a society like this. How else could he explain the tenets that dictated his actions this way?

  “Hello, stranger.”

  The slug-like creature was about a head shorter than its minions, which put it two heads shorter than himself. It oozed along on a slick tail with many little feet, while the upright portion had eyes perched on two stalks, three arms on each side, and wore a vest with many pockets. Quite a strange sight, he was sure, except he had the vague notion that it was not the most bizarre he had seen.

  Which was probably why it wasn’t startling.

  His voice created a nice burr to the ear as he replied, “Greetings.”

  They waited for him to say more, perhaps even continue begging and pleading. But there wouldn’t be any more of that unless he needed it to survive. These beings didn’t look dangerous enough for that.

  Their companions were rounding up and cajoling or beating the other convicts into line. Idly, he wondered where the non-humanoids or other dangerous beings arrived, if they all came here, this scene would be different, considering some of the creatures he knew.

  But how did he know?

  The slug being may have arrived here. It was close enough to a general humanoid being, after all. It spoke again, and its slightly gurgling voice was strange to listen to.

  “You are a servant, then? Are you willing to serve further?”

  Wouldn’t that be nice for you? He thought to himself.

  Some elevation of prestige, perhaps.

  The only thing keeping him from attacking was the strange humanoid male in the dirty chain and plate who still sat off to the side. He was watching the scene unfold quite carefully, although his pretense of disinterest was rather good. That the slug ignored him was telling, but not a complete exposition as to whether he was powerful or not.

  “I believe that without a master, I should rather make my own way.” He spoke slowly and nodded respectfully at the end, his only concession to convince this creature to leave him be.

  The slug twitched its eyestalks around at the minions it commanded.

  Outcast realized then that this would not end quickly. The slug man had to keep up appearances or lose face in front of these others. It commanded by guile, by ruling over others who had strength, those that it convinced to take action. It was not itself powerful enough to lead by force.

  Ah, well.

  “You misunderstand, new being. Man-thing, you will either serve me or be taken to the mines, there to spend the rest of your existence in menial labor,” it gurgled out.

  He smiled and could feel the expression spread devilishly across his face. He was enjoying this!

  “I think not.”

  The yellow snail thing paused as if it expected something more or was surprised. Then it raised two sets of arms and waved its minions forward. One of the two drew a simple knife from his sleeve, while the other cracked its knuckles in his other hand.

  Although acting as muscle for the slug, meaning they were undoubtedly dangerous, hence being sent to this Prison, they were also ones who served and did not look after themselves. That said they were likely not nearly as dangerous as Outcast was.

  He waited, the one with the knife came closer and went for an injury—not a debilitating one, but one that would cause pain without being life-threatening, enough to show him that noncompliance would lead to suffering.

  The sharp blade sliced at the upper bicep of his right arm and bit into the orange cloth. But beyond that it was ineffective. His tough outer skin was as rock hard as its appearance suggested. The blade skittered over his skin in a jagged rent through the sleeve of his Prison cloth.

  He was unharmed.

  In the moment of surprise that distracted the attacking inmate, he struck, open palm to the side of the knee where the weight of the man rested. The sharp crack resounded across the arrivals platform, followed shortly by a bellowing cry of pain as the convict fell.

  The second came in with a thundering right cross, except his chin was not there. He ducked under the blow and rose up with his left elbow raised. The minion’s own momentum dropped his jaw onto the rising elbow, and the two met with a thud of impact that threw the minion up and back, nearly unconscious from the strike.

  He then slammed his left palm down as the first minion looked up at him, and with a right across the cheek, threw his head around and collapsed him to the marble.

  Three moves and he had bested these men.

  He felt right about that, especially since his body was still fatigued from the journey here.

  “Really? If that is all that you can muster, then you won’t be going anywhere but where I say.” The gurgle came out at a slightly higher pitch, but to back up its words the other minions stopped what they were trying to do and turned.

  Several drew out improvised weapons but what really worried him were the six who pulled out blowguns and fitted slender darts into the pipes.

  He had no idea what kind of poison or toxin they may have in this place, but he was willing to bet he would not enjoy the effects overly long.

  **

  The blow darts usually did it, even for difficult arrivals.

  The venom they coated the spines with would drop just about anyone with a single hit. Khanton had used them before, usually against unruly new arrivals, who quickly learned not to press the issue after several weeks of hard labor deep inside the mines.

  The new arrivals came from any number of worlds, so skin harder than sharpened steel was not exactly a surprise. That was why the poison worked on contact, it did not need to enter the bloodstream or whatever this being had that ran through its veins.

  His combat skills were a good match for one in orange, if not to the degree the vortex storms had predicted. However, the armlet with her sigil writ on it would explain the mistake. His minions before had brought down other warriors.

  This one would not be the first nor the last.

  Except just then, Khanton heard words that abruptly sent a spike of disappointment through his three hearts.

  “Do not proceed further. Thou shall face my wrath if thou continue.”

  Khanton sighed, his single large bladder-like lung filled with air and expelled a breath smelling faintly of ammonia.

  There was frequent speculation about how everyone breathed the same atmosphere so readily, but Khanton surmised pure magic altered it enough for the slight differences those sent here had. He guessed other beings with other needs got sent to a different Prison more natural to, well, other environments.

  He dearly hoped that one day this humanoid would be sucked out of this Prison and into one of those. He was so annoying and not just for his weird way of talking. The language was elegant; it was his words that grated!

  The battered armor of the old knight clinked as he stood, and rusted chain mail fell to his steel-capped knees. He wore steel bracers on his arms, pauldrons, and braces on the legs, and solid steel boots.

  Over the chain mail covering his torso, front and back, he wore a tattered cloth that at one time may have been a tabard. All Khanton knew was that everyone said he was a knight, and that he had a bizarre code of honor, especially for someone who had done something to merit being sent here.

  “Please stay out of this,” Khanton gurgled. “He should be no concern of yours.”

  The long dirty hair of the knight tied back on both sides by braided strands of hair. Khanton did not get hair, ever, so he could understand the need to keep it off the pale face and deep-set brown eyes behind that strange bulbous nose.

  But why not just shave it all off?

  The knight’s mouth, surrounded with a mass of red hair the same color as that on his head, split open, and he spoke again in that hoarse voice of his.

  “He has spoken for himself, good Khanton. And thou ought to listen to his words and allow him his own way, or I shall take his side in the matter.”


  He drew his sword, and the distinctive ring of the metal blade scraping the metal at the top of the scabbard sent a shudder down Khanton’s spineless body. He had no bones to go limp at the thought of facing the straight sword again, but he could collapse into himself a little.

  His minions all took a step back and lowered their weapons, giving their master a questioning look of concern.

  If the weird old man drew his sword, then the discussion was over.

  It was an overall unremarkable blade, straight and double-edged, a cross guard of two swollen branches. The entire length was about the same as the knight’s one arm, and otherwise had only a crossed pattern of blades engraved on the pommel for ornamentation. When he needed it to, the entire blade lit up from inside, a blinding white light limned the knight’s body.

  If that happened, there would be a severe problem.

  “As you wish, old man. No need to get all flustered. May we at least take these injured along with us?” he asked, waving the others down, who all obeyed quite readily.

  The knight stepped another two steps closer and stopped, sword out to one side. “Of course. Your men are your own to deal with.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  The knight did not react to the sarcasm, not that Khanton had expected him to. The others gathered the injured pair, who would have to work to pay back for the healing items required to return them to that very same work.

  They followed Khanton as he led them away down the path to the north, hauling along the other ones dressed in sackcloth, unlucky enough to not have been saved.

  **

  Outcast watched the slug creature, and its cohorts trudge away with some amusement that the unknown quantity had turned out to be of aid.

  The old man knight sheathed his simple sword and came closer, a gentle smile on his face.

  “Thank you, stranger,” he said.

  The hoarse voice replied with a smile. “You may call me Convenient.”

  “Yes, you were, quite so at the time. But I would not take your help quite so lightly.”