Convict Fenix

by Alan Brickett

  He felt a very mild burn from the attack, but the pain was more than had come from the arrow to the eye.

  Torn roared again, dust sluiced down from the stones at the sound, his head whipped from side to side as the fury built, seeking out the source of this attack. He would make every effort to prolong the torture of this individual for as long as possible.

  He may even ask the Warlock’s advice on the matter. He hadn’t been hurt like this since the one instance where he had fought the Seductress and Page at the arrivals area some years past.

  And that battle had been very short, not nearly enough for him to see how far it would go. Stopped after the other two recognized and assessed the strength of one another, then cowed by his mightiness.

  That frustration swept over him now, the pure brute hatred that a being, any being could and would harm him in any way.

  “Shadow! Minor thing of the night! Come out and meet your end. I am Torn, the invulnerable, none shall harm me!”

  Off to his left, a shadow separated from between the columns and stepped into the light. The humanoid man with gray skin and white hair, the muscled body, tall and well balanced. Torn caught the scent of him and recognized him instantly.

  “You! You have not been here long before you seek a challenge that is beyond you!” he called out, his body already on the move, thundering toward the latest arrival in orange upon cloven hooves.

  “I beg to differ,” the man replied in a baritone voice that traveled well, elegant when compared with Torn’s own deep bellows.

  “You do realize you are not quite as powerful as you think you are, don’t you?”

  Torn didn’t care to give the question much thought. His only desire was to get within arm’s reach of the man and beat him senseless for later amusement. But an arrow was nocked and sent flying with rapacious ease, not at him but just in front of his feet.

  Unable to halt his forward momentum he couldn’t stop before this arrow also exploded, breaking the floor and interrupting his charge.

  Torn’s hooves crashed into the uneven ground, and with the force countering his movement could not stop a quick trip and fall to the floor. It was humiliating, and he hoped that none of the women were watching or he would have to kill them to keep word of it from getting out. His reputation was paramount.

  That everyone feared him was the most essential part of his existence, the Warlock had made that clear.

  But before he could even vent his frustration with another mighty roar, he was suddenly pummeled by falling explosions. Arrow after arrow let fly to impact him on every spot that would have been lethal on mortals.

  The backs of his knees, under his armpits, the neck, back of the head, temples, and again the eyes. Explosions rippled new cracks across the floor, fire scorched the stonework around him, and the air careened as if a tempest had been trapped under the pantheon.

  But it was all for naught.

  After the barrage, Torn the invulnerable got up, an imprint lighter than the surrounding stone left behind where his body had protected the more fragile floor. There was pain from the minor burns and scorches lacing his skin, and a lot of his hair was burned down to charcoal stubs.

  But otherwise, he was none the worse for wear, just as he had been designed.

  While he had endured the incessant pummeling, Torn’s fury turned into a wave of cold anger.

  The gray-skinned convict stood almost at the far end of the pantheon, behind the slight cover of one column. He seemed to have spent all of his arrows, but the gaze he directed at Torn was not one of fear or frustration, but instead of deep consideration.

  Torn didn’t give it a second thought, he charged again, powerful leg muscles threw sparks off the floor from his hooves and propelled him into a fast sprint.

  The Bowman left the column’s fragile cover and ran back into the night, but this time Torn was not going to wait for him to come at him from another angle of attack. He charged right after him, straight through the solid pillar, his horns slamming into the stone first and his body pushing the rest of the column off in a burst of expanding shrapnel.

  Torn barely felt it, immersed as he was in the battle fever.

  Just beyond, the white-haired man turned raised both hands, and as Torn closed on him, sent a ball of fire, expanding and growing prodigiously, smack bang into his chest. The resulting explosion’s force was immense.

  It threw up the ground, blasted away the bushes and grass, burned imprints into the stone and columns behind Torn, but slowed him only slightly. The goat man hurtled through the fireball. Burns covered his body in a lacework pattern but were still counted as minor injuries.

  His massive fist thundered across in a blow that could break walls, but the prisoner was already ducking down under the swing when he realized he had misjudged Torn’s speed. The gray man’s head, neck, and part of his upper body connected with Torn’s fist, and he could feel the dull impact that sent the nuisance flying over the ground.

  The convict spun, dirt kicked up from his roll, and landed in a heap of tangled limbs.

  Torn had known much bigger inmates to be bent and broken from such a strike. He hadn’t held back, and the man should be much more subdued now. But to his surprise, the gray one leaped to his feet.

  A slight stagger was evident, but still, the endurance of this prisoner was impressive.

  Torn broke into another charge, both fists raised for another set of mighty blows. The convict didn’t manage to get a fireball off this time, and Torn didn’t care why.

  Two massive fists came in from the night to slam down on the man.

  If both landed, there would be only a short story to tell of the inmate who had dared, and it would have a painful ending to his life if Torn had a say, the closing chapter.

  That finality came hammering down into a brilliant coruscating shield of white light that sprung up between Fenix and the blows meant to cut short his convict life.

  A memory of exhilaration…

  It was cold.

  The breath of the guards steamed in the night air and a blanket of snow covered the ground and the roof of the exotic structure housing his primary target. Various other members of his race patrolled the grounds or stood atop the walls of the small estate. Frost lined the paving stones dotting the landscape between manicured garden beds where the plants now lay dormant.

  The armor of the guards proclaimed both their loyalty and that they were subservient to one more powerful than they.

  The only way to employ others was to be their leader, such was the way of his people, and to be their leader meant to uphold their most stringent beliefs. Of course, some who came into that kind of power thought they no longer had to hold to the ways of the people.

  And that was where Fenix came in, to mete out justice upon those foolish enough to keep their people to their ways while divesting themselves of those rules.

  Since every member of his race was taught to fight and kill from a very young age, it took a special kind of person to be tasked with killing another. To be selected as one of the elite few tasked with tracking down those trained as soldiers, scouts, warriors, or assassins, and mete out their death, was a privilege and honor, to be counted as one of those select few.

  And tonight he was to conduct such an act; his first foray into the darkness to kill one of his own, by decree.

  Fenix didn’t care what this person had done or why they had done it, their philosophy or goals were irrelevant. What was important was that She said it must be done and She had empowered him to do it, in so many ways.

  He obeyed without question.

  With a significant degree of excitement as well, although he did not let the feelings throw off his aim. Cool and calm, he settled his excited heartbeat, surged rational control over the complete sense of anticipation, and honed his will again to be master of all his senses.

  The guards, to regular sight, would be blotches among the darkened panels of the building. Only the obvious ones stood out against the b
ackdrop of the slightly purple sky of night.

  There was no moon out. The smell of crystalized water permeated the air, crushed by the footfalls of the guards. Fenix had waited and watched for hours, timing the rounds and the change in shifts. He knew his target was inside with another contingent of attending warriors, and the dozen outside freshly on their turn.

  He chose this time to strike since it would be the least suspected.

  The broad, serrated arrowhead glistened slightly. Even the charcoal darkened metal would reflect some light when covered in ice. Fenix held the arrow up, the fletching to his cheek, and sighted along the shaft at his first target, preparing the shot.

  An advantageous outcry from a local bird sounded, distracting the guards, if only for a second, and he let fly.

  His hand was a blur, it swept down to grasp, notch, and pull the second arrow, letting it fly. Within a split second, he had the third in the air.

  The arrows hissed near silently through the night, the sound barely heard except for the instant before impact, by which time it was too late. The first man was punctured through the throat from the front, the arrow lanced back to sever the nerves and the spine.

  He dropped silently, unable to move or cry out with the immediate cut-off of all motor function. The snow cushioned the body’s fall, embracing it and swallowing the sudden flow of blood that would have steamed and given away the position of the corpse.

  If there were any left to see it.

  Fenix knocked and drew arrow after arrow, his time spent watching had also been spent preparing his aim, testing the night breeze and observing the flight of snowflakes in the air. Every arrow he launched struck home through the neck of a target.

  Each target a being whose life was abruptly cut short in a fantastic display of archery. There had been fourteen guards outside, and at the end of seven seconds, they were all dead or dying.

  Even if the attack had not been so swift, he had planned his targets in order of attack to nullify any chance that another guard would notice and be able to call out a warning.

  As it was, the people inside the ornate structure were utterly unaware that their first line of defense was already breached.

  **

  The inside of the building was all beaten metal attached to rolling spars of wood to allow for rearranging many of the walls and creating rooms of differing sizes.

  Depending on need, the building could accommodate a long table for a feast of a hundred, or be made up of several small intimate rooms for other pleasures. Embossed or enameled, the metal plates depicted works of art, each one a scene of the owner’s mighty deeds before being elevated to this status.

  There were four warriors in the corners of the center room.

  In their current configuration the walls had passages around a small dining area set up for leisure. The other ten warriors sat at the low table on simple stools, appropriately simple for their kind and for a warrior’s home of such standing.

  At the head of the table was Fenix’s target, his chainmail a dull orange, crafted from exotic metals. Far too easily seen for any younger warrior, but he had such experience that he wanted to be noticed on a battlefield, that his next kill would come to him and be worthy.

  Next to each man and woman were their weapons, always near to hand. Not a single one would ever forget the proper teachings of vigilance and preparedness, even in this seemingly safe time and place. Fenix knew this and expected it, he also expected that they would respond quickly to any threat, and as such, he needed to surprise them and throw their plans into upheaval.

  The outside guards were removed to prevent surprises after he was inside the building, not to take advantage of what would be a time of relaxation for any other race he knew of.

  The door furthest from the owner of the estate slid aside in a sudden motion, from the darkness beyond arrows let fly. It was as if there were several archers and not just one, Fenix was that proficient.

  The two guards in the far corners fell with penetrating blades to their necks. The warriors seated most distant from the door and to either side of the owner also took injury, although by that time, only two seconds in, they were all reacting.

  So one of them just had his throat slit and began to bleed out, unable to completely divert the arrow that killed him.

  The second, a woman, managed to raise her wide-bladed short sword in time to divert the arrow from her spine down into her shoulder.

  A dreadful wound, but not lethal at this point.

  Their race was biologically well protected against most poisons, not that Fenix had bothered in this case, there was too much snow that would melt and dilute anything he used on the arrows anyway.

  The fifth arrow was caught by the man in orange mail, an impressive feat since the draw of Fenix’s bow could drive these arrows half their length into solid stone.

  He discarded the bow and stepped into the room, now that they were alerted he had to engage them quickly in a melee.

  In his hands twirled a quarterstaff, made from three pieces which he had connected together on their cunningly crafted joints. The staff had lain against the side of the doorway, in easy reach once the arrows were loosed. Each side of the quarterstaff was not blunt, but pointed, the metal tips filed down to be both sharp and elegant.

  A thrust to his right and the warrior there was skewered, right through the heart in the center of his abdomen. It took great strength to drive even the solid steel through the warrior’s chest bones, something they all trained for.

  His swing to the left was blocked by the narrow thrusting sword held by that warrior. If he got caught up in a sequence of strikes, blocks, and parries, he would be quickly overwhelmed by the others, who even now rose from their seats and leaped to the attack.

  For his kind, or perhaps especially for his kind, it was suicidal for an ordinary member of the race to take on these kinds of odds. Since every one of them was trained to fight and kill from a young age, they all went through rigorous survival tests to hone their skills.

  Making everyone proficient, deadly even, not one of them would engage in an outnumbered battle against their own.

  The mental acuity needed to best more considerable odds were part of the upbringing.

  But by then, Fenix was no longer ordinary; he would sneer at any description placing him as a general member of the species. He had outgrown their impressive skill and added a new repertoire of his own, with magic.

  That was why he had been chosen, why he had received specialized training, and most importantly, why he could be considered to attack his own kind when they broke their laws. The very select few like him reported directly to Her.

  With no other power strong enough to face Her, they were unlikely to turn traitor to their ways.

  And if they did, they faced Her supreme wrath.

  With the one pointed end of his quarterstaff in a blur used to keep the warrior at bay, he kept the bulk of his body facing into the room, along with his hands that held the weapon. He pressed the two middle fingers of each hand into his palms around the shaft and conjured the flame from within.

  On each hand, he sprung open his fingers and pointed toward his targets as two bolts of deep red fire burst forth.

  Each bolt flew and struck true, holes blasted through outer armor, their chests, through their flesh, and out their backs. Spinal bone, wet fluid, and burned tissue were strewn around each newly made corpse.

  The warrior he faced was shocked, and for that moment’s hesitation, he lost his life. Fenix swept aside his narrow blade, clipped his head up with a quick swing under the jaw, and then stabbed him through the throat.

  The wet sucking sound of the pointed staff withdrawn from the most recent victim was hidden behind the wild war cry of another. The room smelled suddenly of burned flesh, the scent taking some time to catch up with events even as Fenix added to the general miasma by sending another two bolts to blow the shouting woman in half.

  Her torso split at the waist and trailing
long innards went flying off on a trajectory away from the waist while the legs toppled to the floor.

  His blood roared in his ears, the song of his pounding heartbeat out the rhythm of his kills.

  For him to be so potent a force at such a young age eclipsed his teachers and other leaders among his people. That he had been taught to wear his skills with pride elevated his current standing to supernatural highs.

  The magic coursed through him, enervating him, pushing his mind into the furor of conflict with the craft of a master musician bending the rhythm of heart, blood, and battle together.

  Fenix leaped forward and spun in the air, his feet left the wooden floor and flames came forth from them. His cartwheel twisted a ring of fire, and the light threw multiple shadows careening around the room. The blast sprang forth from him as he landed with a thud, sending the propelled fire ring ran up the room along with the set of chairs that had just been vacated. Warriors dodged or rolled out of the way, their reflexes sharp and quick.

  In the space behind their agile tumbles and careful avoidance of the fire came Fenix, steel staff points already red with blood were jabbed into armpits or slashed across throats.

  The heavy metal thumped into the backs of knees and spun around to connect with temples, cracking skulls. More bolts of fire flew at opportune moments to catch the warriors on the far side of the burning table unaware or keep them busy.

  The memory was flooded with motion, sound, and smell; the details lost in the mix of overlapping tones. It was not over quickly, for the other warriors adapted to the magic he employed; even in their training, they had learned to fight magic wielders of various kinds.

  But the inevitability of it was there, an underlying thread to the memory that flew through the mixed images in his mind, until there, at the very end, he had defeated all of the warriors with staff and flame.

  Before him was left only the owner of the building, his target for the night, resplendent in orange-tinged chain mail with a broadsword in hand. He waited for Fenix, calmly at ease in a battle pose, sword held horizontally before him, feet spaced evenly, body balanced and ready.