Convict Fenix

by Alan Brickett

  On one occasion, he saw a loser take the chance to stab the winner a few times when he was close enough.

  What was the most important lesson for him just then was that the dying being collapsed, bleached itself of all color down to the clothing and boots it wore and evaporate. The same effect as had occurred with the would-be ambush thugs when he had killed them.

  The female being who was the victor then absorbed all of the dying winner’s stone, and after the black and white wisps had desiccated the body, she took the tiny stone left behind as well.

  An excellent example that they were all criminals, but also a learning experience for him.

  Now that Outcast had a far better working knowledge of what the stones were for, at least in terms of value, he had to wonder. If everyone who died left behind one of these stones and they were valuable, then why leave those senseless creatures around?

  There was one way to find out.

  **

  It did not take long, wandering through the lesser traveled streets, to find one of the listless and vacant prisoners.

  A quick look around to avoid having a fight in numbers determined that there was only the one. A tall humanoid with near white skin, thin limbs, and limp black hair trailing around it as it swayed back and forth.

  A pendulum on its knees.

  He flipped the dagger out of his cloth bundle. It felt good in his hand, like an extension of his body. He stepped up and stabbed into the right side of the being’s head, passing through the side of the skull through the ear. Any creature that had a skull, or a neck for that matter, usually had a brain or central nervous system in the head.

  The blow was solid and quick, the strange being jerked once and with what could have passed for a relieved sigh, and it died.

  The being bleached, then shrank and the smoke appeared, less of it than with the others, he was sure, but dissipated just as quickly. But this time the corpse folded in on itself, dried out and became a husk in seconds.

  After the process completed he pushed it back and forth, the rib cage formed a good handle for him to maneuver it around. There was nothing, no glowing stone in this one.

  He heard the breath drawn in before the voice spoke, but he acted startled nonetheless.

  “You won’t find anything among the lost,” it grated out in a dull baritone, bored and devoid of much feeling.

  He stood slowly and turned to face what had been a blank wooden wall a moment before. Now there stood a being at about his height, also humanoid, but bulky, slabs of muscle wrapped up in hides.

  The getup had a pattern, darkened shoulders, and a symbol painted on the front.

  Some kind of uniform? That would imply an organization or government, so surely not.

  “You probably don’t, but I’ll ask anyway, do you remember your name?” The almost pink skin of the man pulled tighter when he spoke. Flat white teeth and purple eyes set him apart slightly.

  Otherwise, he was roughly the same as most humanoid mammals.

  Something tickled in his head, like a strange buzzing, but his name did not leap out at the question.

  A pity.

  “No, I do not. Are you a law enforcer?”

  “Quick, sharp. But no, more like a supervisor aid. Generally, we just keep order for the Warrens.

  The Warlock, he likes to have some control over the population. Not so much law as it is just keeping to some basic rules. Such as preventing an all-out melee among the convicts,” The being replied in its bored voice.

  This one probably did not enjoy living, something like a sociopath, no connection with what he did.

  For himself, he had the feeling that living was one of the things he did best, despite being a killer.

  Now how did he know that, but not his name?

  “Anyway,” the humanoid continued. “The lost have no more Vitae left, so they aren’t worth killing. That is why we just leave them out until they die of exposure. It won’t be much longer for most of them. If there get to be too many, we do a purge, but otherwise, there is no benefit. Sometimes they are useful as bait, but usually, even the wild creatures can sense that they have nothing left in them. All empty and hollow.”

  He was not fooled by the casual glance around the area, this convict employed as an enforcer still had his attention focused on any move that he might make. He was careful, perhaps hoping to be able to fight and kill him.

  The ones who kept order could probably keep the—what had he called it, Vitae—from whomever they killed in the name of the rules.

  “Sir, if I may ask. Is it that orange stone the Vitae?” He spoke carefully, keeping his tone neutral. It wouldn’t do to have trouble or cause this man to call for help.

  “That’s right. The essence of life itself. It’s what keeps you going in here.” A slight gesture indicated the Warrens, the land, the sky, the Prison.

  “You won’t need food or drink, to survive. You can still enjoy it of course, but none of it will support you. The Warlock says that if the prisoners just kept arriving, the place would be overrun in years. So each prisoner has to survive on their own Vitae, and if they start to run out, they need to get more, or die.”

  That made sense, it could still take them quite a long while to die, but it removed the necessity to feed and support a Prison population while ensuring that they still had to work to survive. Smart, and probably considered immoral or unethical against various moral tenets, but used on condemned criminals, it would be acceptable to most.

  He glanced up at the focused stare of the man, and then looked down again, adopting a non-threatening posture.

  “How do you get more? By killing others?”

  “Yes, that is one way. Different beings will have more or less. You could also trade for more of it. On the other hand, you could go out there and try to kill some animals or other creatures. The Warden alone knows how many things are out there.”

  “Some sent to the Prison, others formed here by convicts or magical experiments. The Warlock himself has brought forth a few new things into the Prison over the centuries. Who knows, you may even be able to survive against some of them.”

  He paused for emphasis. “But nothing in the Prison is anything less than lethal, or it does not survive. Remember that. You want to get Vitae and stay alive, come work for the Warlock. The mines pay well enough to keep you going for centuries.”

  So that was it, give the prisoners a chance and allow them to eke out an existence and you had a workforce. If any of the workforce got uppity, just kill them and take the resulting Vitae. A smart move; he may have considered the same if it was not already in place. This Warlock was building something.

  He nodded slowly to show that he understood.

  The enforcer nodded back. “If you want to sign up, go to any of the buildings marked with this symbol,” he tapped his chest. “In any area with people around it means they are off shift, and inside you will find the supervisor who can sign you up. You work a day on and two days off, same as everyone else.”

  The deserted portions of the Warrens were areas where the population were on shift.

  That was also smart. Create groups, keep to them, build a routine, and the days will fly by. Provide entertainment, and a means to absorb any excess wealth, and none could rise to challenge you. The Festering Warrens were a pit in which the general convict would quickly be consumed without knowing it.

  He nodded again and slowly sauntered off, aware the detached being was watching him go. As soon as he was around a corner, he stepped back into the street. As he suspected, the enforcer had vanished without a trace. So they used magic, he considered, and magic was something he also knew of.

  So how did one get to live on their Vitae and also use magic?

  It must be costly but offset against survival, probably necessary as well.

  **

  Outcast left that area of the Warrens behind, opting to find a part of it where he was still new.

  Being a target usually meant that others kne
w what you did not. If he were going to survive, it would not be healthy to stay near the beings who had learned he was new. In the next area, he walked with confidence, smiled at the goings on, cheered a bit at the fights, or cat-called at the slave blocks.

  The semblance of fitting in, of acting like the rest, made him downright invisible in the throng.

  A change of clothes, with the orange hidden under sackcloth, ensured he also looked like the rest, or at least as much as the variety of beings and creatures could look like each other. If a kill within the Warrens was noted, they must know through magical means when that vapor left a new body.

  So killing away from the organized areas where it was allowed would mean trouble.

  That left him with surviving in the wilds outside of town, an attractive option, but one which required specific resources, weapons, and tools. Alternatively, he could take part in what everyone else was doing.

  Outcast knew he would only get so far within the system this Warlock had set up, but perhaps he could do well enough to afford some equipment for exploring the rest of the Prison.

  It was worth a try.

  It took him the better part of an hour among the crowds to figure out how the fighting worked. Since he did not know enough to make a bet, he wanted to learn how a fighter could quickly make the most. It wasn’t something he would do long term, that would attract too much attention, but he trusted his skills enough to be able to take on a significant challenge if there was to be enough reward.

  Once he had ascertained how the fighting of creatures worked, he was in.

  There were various forms of work when serving the Warlock it seemed, not just the mines. You could be a supervisor, someone who assisted in managing how the mines ran. You could be a law keeper or own a shop, be one of those who kept the Festering Warrens running.

  The fighting pit needed fighters, but also bookkeepers, bet takers, supervisors of their own, and announcers.

  You could also form part of the convoluted hierarchy of muscle and brains that ran all of these different elements.

  Outcast felt that would be wrong for him, and take far too long. Ultimately, everyone reported up the chain to Khanton, who in turn ran this part of the Prison area for Torn, who reported to the Warlock.

  There were rumors that Torn was a creation and not a convict, or that he was the Warlock in disguise, and that sometimes Torn would come and fight in the pits.

  It was no wonder the prisoners would often opt to go into the ring. The audience could bet within limits and perhaps earn more Vitae that way. The fighters got to keep the Vitae of whatever or whomever they killed. Some very well-kept groups of convicts specialized in going out into the wild to capture creatures for the pits.

  The creatures fed on a steady diet of wannabe hopefuls who expected the wild entities to have a load of Vitae if they could kill them.

  Which led him in the late afternoon to a pit dug into the ground eighty feet to a side and lined with spikes embedded in the clay walls. Everything in the Prison adapted to absorb Vitae, and that included the wild creatures.

  He had arranged to take part in a match against a monster that had been going strong for a few days now, so it was well fed and had consumed the Vitae of many prisoners.

  He expected that some of the more powerful fighters would be along soon to defeat the creature; they likely had the skills and equipment to do so quite naturally. It made the audience begrudge them when they did, and betting was very light on such a match since they could only get favorable odds on such a well-endowed fighter.

  As an unknown, Outcast got much higher bets. And, apparently, even after looking him over, the odds were not in his favor.

  It was a risk; to enter the pit meant only the prisoner or the creature got out alive. However, he knew this was his best chance to get going quickly. Convenient had said he should push himself, even with his skills and well-trained body, he didn’t actually remember anything yet.

  The vague flashes and recollections from the night before did not amount to much, he needed more. This sort of risk, this play right into danger, it was him, an intrinsic part of himself that he felt right with.

  **

  The covered wooden gate on the far end of the pit began opening when various convicts pulled on it from above so that it swung upward to open into the cage on the inside.

  What hurtled out of the opening was something that, back on its own world, was called a Lthon. Among its own kind, this one was even more devious, carnivorous, and cannibalistic than the rest of its kind, enough to be sent to this Prison.

  Since it couldn’t speak any language the other prisoners understood, they treated it like a beast.

  They were not far off; the intelligence of the Lthon differed from that of other beings in the cosmos on certain fundamental levels. Not that anyone really cared, they enjoyed how much it relished tearing anything else it came across into tiny shreds of meat.

  He watched it come, the motion slowing down as instincts trained in thousands of battles brought time to a crawl.

  It was big, twice his height, and that was on bent joints. Strangely proportioned, it seemed to have a very big head, like that of a wildcat set on four-way jointed shoulders connected to overly long bones. The four arms were jointed out and up from the head, allowing it to dip and bob the head within the four arms.

  If it straightened up, it would be four times his height, and with a lot more muscle.

  At one point, the fur had been its natural white color, but since arriving in the pits, it was now stained with mud and other detritus to a murky covering of brown dappled with darker brown. It had slitted green eyes that locked onto him.

  The forward arms thundered over the loose soil toward him. There may have been something hypnotic or psychic within those eyes, but he was able to ward it off with some minor effort.

  That was a good thing, because the ends of the forward arms swept up, revealing long, shimmering claws as sharp as scythes attached to the pads on the feet. They cut furrows through the dirt and may even have gotten through Outcasts’ tough skin if he hadn’t dodged forward and rolled under the Lthon.

  Its spicy musk swept over him as he landed right beneath the head.

  Just because you were a murderer or had done some heinous crime did not mean you knew how to fight predators.

  Somehow he knew how.

  The first thing to learn was a predator will attack you, and keep attacking you and usually be very good at it. What a predator was not equipped for was a sturdy defense. In most cases, a predator won by surprise attack, a sudden and very violent one at that. In a prolonged fight, two predators would be on equal footing, since they usually only fought each other.

  A predator who recognized a stronger predator of a different kind usually left the fight, which was for survival.

  Most of the hapless prisoners taking a chance at fighting the Lthon would have tried to keep it in view and attack it from a distance or keep it at bay, hoping to exhaust and kill it. He knew better, and likely every other prisoner who knew better was also not caught up in this mob working for the Warlock.

  He got under it, where it couldn’t see him properly even though it could twist its neck around like an owl’s.

  The Lthon was not designed to fight things right below it. It could lash out with deadly effect, could pounce on and bear down prey outweighing it by eight times as much. Powerful jaws for choking and rending, claws for tearing, it could beat big opponents and outmatch quick ones. This man creature eluded it far too well.

  The long arms pounded the ground flat as the Lthon weaved back and forth, while under it, he danced the game of shadows.

  The Lthon’s shadow was his marker, and he stayed within it, like a children’s game where the light was a danger. If he were out of the shadow, then the Lthon would have a clear line of attack, and he would probably die.

  Not that he minded, his blood sang in his ears, adrenaline pumped through his body, his mind sang from the effort of m
erely staying alive. The Lthon beat the frenzy of its anxiety out upon the earth, and he danced a mad jubilee to its beat.

  The convicts of the audience shouted and cried out at him, many of them enjoying the spectacle, while others urged the Lthon to find him, pointing to him and screaming, “He is right there!”

  Some of the killers and psychopaths recognized his wild smile and widened their own grins in reciprocation, the response of a kindred spirit showing joy in the fight. The Lthon tried madly to get at him. Claws would whisk up at him but fall short when he dodged.

  It needed three feet to stay upright while trying to see underneath itself, so one foot at a time was easy enough for him to avoid.

  The moment came that the Lthon tired from expending so much effort, as it must. The creature slowed down enough that he could predict its moves. Actually, it was a combination of him speeding up and absorbing the nature of the Lthon and its waning energy, but the result was the same.

  In between a set of attempted strikes, he danced about beneath the body of the Lthon and then took a moment with the dagger that, sharpened all night, now had a keen edge to it.

  General anatomy dictated that every mammalian creature with skin and bone would require tendons to move and that the stronger the being, the more visible those tendons would be if you knew what to look for.

  He wasn’t sure how he knew what to look for, but he did.

  The Lthon’s joints stretched obviously over raised mounds, like wires under the skin, and by their angle and stretch, he knew they were strong tendons.

  He struck at those on one of the legs first, a quick slash at the correctly gauged distance and the skin parted, orange blood spurted out, and he felt the blade tug at the tendon. He didn’t cut right through it with the first attempt. It was probably a lot stronger than would part easily under pure steel.

  The Lthon reacted instantly.

  A mewl came out of its many-toothed mouth, and it danced about over his head, but this time to avoid him rather than attack.

  He was still nimble, while it was both tired and now in pain. He struck out at another leg, this time getting a bit closer and able to put more force behind the blow.