Convict Fenix

by Alan Brickett

  They didn’t even know if they had the means to survive in the Prison, what powers could they have, such frail and beautiful beings.

  Their words, spoken through three mouths, moved Fenix to sympathy.

  Convenient had been right to help them, his gracious nature and charity spared them from certain death. Now Fenix could assist them, he could ensure their safety in this dangerous place from which he might be their only defense.

  They stole glances at him, sometimes all three of them at once.

  He found that endearing. They were magnificent creatures, graceful in their ever floating way, their clothing rising and falling about their bodies delightfully.

  Like pure beings of wind and agility, allure and grace, fallen to this mundane earth of many forms.

  They could be the next real change the Prison needed.

  Their words, spoken so adeptly, whispered transparently about the possibilities they could see. Fenix was so enthralled by their nature, he ignored the fascination building slowly within him. Word by word, gesture by gesture, and with touches so light that promised so much.

  But Convenient was not so easily convinced, he avoided being too close to them. Even while Fenix admired their forms and bodies, their beguiling eyes, the rapture of their voices, the old knight would step back if they approached.

  All politeness and grace in his manner, he avoided being a part of their plans. Soon enough, their words proved to Fenix their frustration, even their fear that perhaps Convenient would not be as safe as he first thought.

  But the idea was a strange one, weaned as it was from the entreaties of the women for their survival, to be his protector.

  It led to harsh words between the two men, with Fenix being first to accuse.

  “How could you sit there and belittle them so when you were the one who pushed us to their rescue!” he implored Convenient.

  “My friend, look at this carefully. Why would we want to help anyone in this place? You, yourself, were right about that. I just wanted to prevent any great shift in power and hide the chase from others. You know this.” Convenient was contrite and spoke softly, his hands out to his sides to indicate that he meant no aggression.

  “Yes, yes, you did.” Fenix knew that, didn’t he?

  “But you want to leave us to go our own way now,” cried Blue.

  Red added, “You know we are at a loss. We could die if left undefended.”

  Green stroked her hand down his upper arm. “You know we will not survive without help.”

  “But you have your mission, Fenix. You need to get out that which drives you.” Convenient made a good point.

  The knowledge burned inside him, it pushed back the sonorous voices, and pressed aside all other thought but for his own survival. Yet with each stroke of their hands, he calmed.

  The three colorful ones came closer. They stroked his chest and arms, whispered to him to calm him, and remind him of his pledge to aid them.

  He rounded on Convenient. “You, old knight, you help only those you feel you should, on a whim and even more whimsy. Your addled mind knows nothing of my aims. If I change my mind, what matter is it of yours? You can barely survive yourself, your choices will be the end of you!”

  “But lad, your greatest strength in survival is to find those able to help you. You only help others if it adds some benefit,” Convenient replied clearly, unhurriedly, all the while eyeing the women.

  It was right, and confusing, what was it that he was doing? Why would he help them?

  Blue answered the unspoken thought, “We can help you achieve your goals.”

  “We can add our power to your own, you will be able to lead a new people within the Prison,” Red added.

  Green touched his cheek. “Just think of what you could accomplish with our ability to bring everyone together.”

  Their ability?

  He couldn’t quite ask the question. His mind just would not latch on to it properly. But Convenient seemed to be clear minded and asked, “And what is your ability, exactly? You said before that you could not remember.”

  Fenix abruptly realized their lack of body language had been the obstacle to recognizing their intentions. The woman in black was still and plain of face and the other three mimicked life as if always on stage. They could represent anything at any time. So the actual agenda, body language, and manipulation were completely fabricated within the fabrication. It was impressive, and yet it didn’t bother him at all.

  “We do not, Sir Knight,” Blue exclaimed, sorrow in her tone.

  “Please, come to us. We would like to show you our embrace. Let us in.” Red floated closer to the old man.

  Green stayed with Fenix but spoke out. “We mean no harm at all. Just consider that you could be with us.”

  “Or you could be an enemy, seeking to trap us after rescuing us for your own devices.” Blue floated back a little, horror crashing across the beauty of her features.

  “Do you think so?” Red swished aside, hand to her mouth.

  Green smiled confidently at the other two. “Worry not. If he is, then Sir Knight would need to first face down our champion, wouldn’t he?”

  She turned to him, subsuming his gaze in her own, and the vast serenity of knowing they needed protection and that he could do it overwhelmed him.

  Fenix looked over at Convenient, and the tension built.

  The knowledge that the man had his own agenda was explicit. Added to that his need to get involved, he organized Fenix to take attacks, perhaps he wanted him dead, regardless. And now, now with these women who so needed help, how could a man of principle require they be abandoned or worse yet, stopped?

  The moment dragged out, anxiety on their faces pierced his heart, and the women were scared. He would deal with Convenient, the man who stood there like a solitary sentinel protecting the rest of the Prison.

  Fenix had every intention of merely attacking the man, despite the power of his sword and his more considerable experience in the Prison. To rake out his eyes and tear out his heart, to offer the Vitae to these women as a gift of their divinity.

  But something deep down urged him differently, the nagging question of what it was to be a man of principle, and why he never would be.

  The core nature of Fenix asserted itself, it questioned and the web of conclusions he had woven over the past few hours fell apart in his crystal clarity.

  “Draw your sword old knight, let us see if you can defend your position with it.” He spoke, but at the same time made a particular set of gestures that Convenient’s eyes adroitly followed.

  Blue cried out and clapped her hands, altogether an endearing reaction.

  Red giggled and flew backward to take Blue’s hand.

  Green placed a loving peck to his check, and the skin burned with tingles as she also drifted over to hold hands with the others.

  Fenix stepped forward and spoke again. “Draw your sword, Convenient, and show me the truth.”

  The old knight’s eyes closed and open slowly, he nodded his understanding and drew his sword. It sprang to a magical life, white fire beaming out in a general haze over the entire clearing. Fenix felt the sirens’ call pushed out of his mind. Their half-truths and webs of lies, their emotional undertones, and illusions.

  The glamour and manipulation that had all formed a part of their great geas, their wish for him, evaporated before that light.

  Together, the two male convicts turned to face the four women, and this time there was no adoration in either man’s eyes.

  “We are sorry.” The first appeared to be quite contrite.

  “We did not mean to do it,” chimed in the second.

  “It is our nature. We could not help ourselves,” finished the third.

  As ever, the woman in black remained silent, but Fenix swore he could see a flicker of apprehension pass across her features.

  Fenix’s face twisted into a snarl. “I don’t care, it is in my nature to not be trifled with!”

  **


  “Can you imagine what would have happened if these things had gone to the normal arrivals platform? They could have dominated and gorged themselves on the usual greeting party.”

  Fenix was commenting, after retrieving an arrow from the black satin dress of the fourth woman. It had turned out that she not only controlled the others, but they were effectively spirits, bound to her and insubstantial. But not to the burning fire of his flame, enough to diffuse them at any rate.

  “That they could have. The slug Khanton would have made for a strange meal going down. But the rest of them would likely have fed these creatures well. The ogre and the wargs were likely too different to have been affected so easily. I wonder if the Warden arranged for them to arrive in this forest in the hopes of dealing with some of Joanne’s lot.” Convenient came closer.

  It was an interesting thought, if the Warden could control the arrivals then perhaps he had more control over departures than anyone realized.

  “That’s twice you have saved me now,” Fenix mused, watching the ashes drift away on the slight breeze rustling the leaves.

  Convenient was also watching the small white flurries. “Aye, lad, I did. But let’s call this one even since I got you into it in the first place. And hopefully, we’ll have time yet for you to see why I helped you when you arrived.”

  He didn’t push the old knight further, the balancing of the scales was good enough.

  A memory of fear…

  He ran, the knee-high grass wet and tacky slapping his pants and restricting his sprinting gait.

  Over hillocks and down the sides of the wrinkles in the earth, he stumbled and fell, grazes along his palms and arms smarting, knees bruised and bloodied.

  But he got up and ran on, ever on, to avoid what chased him. Fenix’s expectation of what was to come drove him with fear’s curse, the uncontrollable terror to survive.

  If he could just get away. And yet, it was hopeless.

  Perhaps he could find a quick death, a cliff or tree to jump from. But that might not kill him, even if he could find one in the grassland that rolled onward to a horizon under darkened clouds.

  No ravines, no cliffs, no rock bigger than a small stone with which to defend himself. Or bash his own brain in and end it. A rustle of moving grass spurred him away from his left, and he angled to escape from the sound.

  It sent a fresh rill of fear up his spine, and his labored breathing and pounding heart lent more fuel as adrenaline forced the protesting limbs onward. He had to stay ahead of them, hope lay in an escape, if only it were not so hopeless.

  The Larantis pursued for days. They rarely let prey survive once they had a scent. And that was only if the hunted ever managed to keep them at bay for that long.

  From above he carved a shaky trail through the grassland, the mangled brush leaving a sure sign of his passage behind him. To either side, more trails carved through the tall grass pushed aside by felines that easily merged with the coloring of the surroundings.

  On four legs they adopted a tunneling motion, heads down, sharp ears pulled back and the broad head and slitted eyes forward to barrel through.

  They called to each other in short, clipped chirps. From these feline mouths, they were like shrill purrs cut short or elongated in some animal cries only they understood. Except he knew, only too well, that it meant they were closing on him.

  Soon they would strike again, and this time cause more severe wounds to go with the scratches from barbed claws already on his arms and back.

  The furry predators liked to play with their prey, pheromones from most every other species provoked their sensory pleasure centers. Larantis literally got high on killing, and prolonging the pheromones meant stalking the prey for as long as possible while baiting out their fear.

  If they could get a refined extract from an attack and kill then they would. And that time was approaching; he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer, and they knew it.

  It was time they got him to exude the precious chemicals with as much fear as they could cause in him before he died. That was why a quick death would be preferable, the pain they could generate wasn’t the problem, and it was the narcotic excreted from their glands when they licked over the most severe wounds to numb them.

  Then the Larantis got inventive, pushing the dread and horror to new heights.

  This chase was just the appetizer.

  He got about another mile amid falls, rolls, and more scrapes. Every part of him was sore, every limb tired, and yet he was still driven onward, better that than give in to what would come next. But it seemed his hunters now wanted their main course, the delectable treat that his prolonged death would provide for them.

  A furrow in the grass turned from the parallel chase to close in on him, the waving fronds rustled with the running creature shaking them. The precursor to the attack was just a ploy, he had endured it countless times already.

  They harried him, chased him and swept past in false attacks that only served to drive him on. He was getting used to it, and this time he didn’t even care. The ongoing run was sapping his strength.

  Which was why the Larantis attacked, a powerful set of teeth came in behind him and nipped at his calves. Nip may have been an understatement, as the teeth shredded the muscle low down on the calf.

  The pain aside it was a calculated injury, with his full weight being pushed to the limits of endurance the strands of muscle left holding his ankle to the back of his knee was not strong enough.

  Unlike a hamstring, which would have dropped his foot dead, he could still choose to run on this, if at a limp and in great suffering.

  So he did, actively seeking a refuge or a quick end he limped along at a fraction of his former speed. The blood from the wound quickly coagulated, the Larantis had seen to that, preventing him from dying by blood loss. It took him another hundred feet of struggle to realize that perhaps with the existing wound he could bleed himself out before they got to him.

  His fear was so great that the chance was very appealing.

  He dropped down to land on his side, then rolled to a sitting position and looked down at the bite wound. His calf was a mess of blood and meat halfway up the lower leg. With a grimace, he kicked out, every intention to suddenly snap the muscle off the tenuous grip and create a profusely bleeding wound.

  With fantastic speed, a Larantis flew from the grass covering it used to hide its approach and grabbed at his leg, its weight enough to pull it down where the needle teeth and its four legs kept him from moving more than a few inches.

  He felt its tongue scrape against the fibrous tissue, the needles of pain vanished, suppurated in the anesthetic the Larantis applied. But it held on, keeping him still, keeping him from escaping and injuring himself further.

  Its keenly intelligent eyes watched him from over his own leg in its jaws. More of them crept from the grass, slowly stalking into view, with a hiss or a cough to announce their arrival.

  The scene was intended to drive a new spike of dread into him, push him back to the edge of terror so that they could feed. It was working. They lashed out at him, one at a time charging in to swipe and pull back.

  He couldn’t go very far, the one on his leg would pull him back around if he tried to crawl away.

  The random attacks caused only superficial harm; it was more of their play.

  He struggled to keep clear from their slashing claws and chomping teeth. Then one of them grabbed a finger. That was it, just a single finger on his left hand, neatly in its mouth he felt it lick the tip in succulent glee. His whole arm trembled from the purr of the Larantis, its great pleasure in his torment evident.

  He stayed very still as another one approached. Slowly, the one with his finger gave a slight tug.

  The second one came up to his right hand where he pressed it into the ground to have some leverage. The entire scene was out of a nightmare, the smell of blood and crushed grass overlying the animal smell of the Larantis pack. The second one nuzzled his ha
nd, then pawed at it, no claws, and a gesture for him to lift it.

  He wanted to pull back, but the other one still had his finger, and the one on his leg wouldn’t let him get far anyway.

  In abject terror, he lifted his hand from the ground. He couldn’t help it, and he knew what was going to happen but was unable to stop it. If he fought, they would get more inventive, and he just wanted it to end. The Larantis opened its mouth and slowly closed its jaws over a finger on his right hand. There he was, the rope between two of them.

  Then they started the tug of war.

  Jerky, abrupt pulls that got both his arms out to each side, needle teeth embedded to the bone of each finger right up to the hand. They pulled back and forth, scraping him along the ground on his back, tug after tug.

  It finally ended when the flesh, skin, and muscle slipped apart and wrenched its way clear of the finger on his left hand. The pain was incredible, and he caught a glimpse of the three bones, tiny little things, as they flew away from the force of the dismemberment.

  The Larantis on his right hand gave a kind of hacking cough, a chuckle of joy at having won the contest. Then, to his horror, a different Larantis took up a whole finger on his left hand, after licking the stump of the first to numb the pain and stop the bleeding.

  He had five fingers on each hand, the contest continued for quite a while, tug the rope that was Fenix, pull the arms taught, keep limp, try to endure, and lose another finger. One at a time he had each finger pulled off, and his terror at the helpless torture he suffered just drove the Larantis on.

  When they were done, one finger remained on his left hand, the last one to be whole with several Larantis having lost their turn.

  The competition wasn’t over yet however, they couldn’t use his toes on both legs because pulling on the injured leg would just tear the calf open even further. But they could grip his shoulder bones and pull back against the whole leg.

  Only after an eternity of pain where each toe was removed did they return and take the finger from his hand.