by Chad R. Odom
Inside this area, the true nature of the guards was manifest. They sang like demons, mocking the woman with their sadistic lullaby even as they broke her fingers and tore the baby from her arms, throwing the infant against the wall as they did. It cried for a moment and then went still. They stripped, raped, and beat her.
Therion shook his head and rolled his eyes. Criminal he was. Murderer he was. This was something else. Until recent days, he thought he’d seen evil, but he was wrong. He turned to leave.
He didn’t get far. Despite his size, Roanoke had quietly come in behind Therion. The massive being startled Therion at first then irritated him. He was tired of the Butcher’s omnipresence.
Since their first meeting, Therion had lost his fear of his babysitter. While Roanoke was a force of nature, he was getting more tired of dancing on his strings than he was afraid of being smothered by one of his massive hands.
“Does it bother you?” Roanoke asked.
“I’m stuck here. That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”
Roanoke watched the whole scene unfold with complete indifference. “Why don’t you enjoy it?”
“Do you?”
The question seemed to puzzle Roanoke who stood silent.
“It’s not that I don’t love our little chats, it’s just—I don’t. Well, you’re far too big for me to move, so if you would be so kind…” He was cut off by the small whimper of the child the guards had pried from the woman.
The child was still alive. Roanoke addressed the sound as if it were a threat. When he saw the origin of the cries, he approached slowly, coolly telling the guards to finish off the woman and leave. The guards straightened their clothing, put a bullet in her head, and went back to their posts.
The infant lay on its back, a fresh bruise forming under the soft hair on its head. One eye on the small child was swelling shut. As it woke up more fully, its cries increased. Roanoke cocked his head, studying the creature. He nudged it with his massive foot, and it cried even more in earnest. Roanake then placed a portion of his huge foot on the child’s chest, and the crying was instantly muted. Its face was still contorted with pain, but only a small noise came from it.
Roanoke lifted his foot, and the crying resumed. Like a cat after disabling a bird, he placed his foot on the child and off it, studying it with cruel intent.
“This child puts up more struggle than the adults. They’re too stupid to realize what’s coming and then, even if they do, they’re too stupid to accept it’s really happening.”
He reapplied the pressure on the screaming infant until the small snap of underdeveloped bones crackled through the air.
“They’re so easy to dispose of.” He stepped off the infant and glared at Therion.
“All of them, except you. You, Therion.” He stepped menacingly toward him. “I can see why the master wanted me to leave you alive for this long. You’re clever, resourceful, and full of surprises.
“But in the end, you’re just like the sheep out there. Too stupid to realize death has been coming for you for a long time. Too blind to see it when it’s only inches from you. You’ve been walking into it, silent and willing for some time now. Did you actually believe he cares if you live or die?
“That’s over now. He told me you were of no further use to him.”
Roanoke was between Therion and the exit. He had little options, and death was approaching quickly. He tripped over the mother’s corpse.
Roanoke laughed at Therion’s misfortune. It was a deep, inhuman sound made even more terrifying by the creature producing it. Therion’s next action was futile, but he only needed a second. From the ground, he pulled his pistol and shot Roanoke in the face with every bullet he had. Roanoke’s supernaturally hard skin muffled the sound of the bullets. He scrambled to his feet, using the millisecond of time this distraction had bought him to escape.
Roanoke snatched his arm as he passed and lifted him off his feet. He held Therion’s face inches from his own. His grip was like a vice, threatening to snap his arm into pieces. Therion’s last moments on earth were upon him. Roanoke pulled one of the bullets from his flesh and pinched it between his fingers like a needle. He brought it to Therion’s hand, placed it at the center of Therion’s palm with his thumb, placed his forefinger on the back of his hand, and drove the bullet through the flesh and out the other side. Therion screamed in agony.
“He didn’t tell me how or when to kill you, just to make it something you’d never forget. I’m not going to make this easy. I want you to know you were and still are nothing without him. Then, in your emptiness, I will come for you, and I will kill you.”
Roanoke pulled him even closer and said quietly, “Run and hide, little lamb. Run and hide. The Butcher is coming for you.”
He released Therion. As soon as Therion could get back on his feet, he scrambled for the exit. The last thing he noticed as he fled into the darkness was the face of Peifer Mankusa, marching into the inferno.
Body Guards and Keys
“You’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?” Tamrus asked Oryan.
Oryan stared out the rain streaked window as the pod rounded the last corner. “Are you sure it’s a good idea he knows all this?”
Oryan motioned at Heyman Stehli, the other passenger in the pod. He was a wealthy business man and one of Tamrus’s ambassadors to Navarus.
“Do you trust me?” Tamrus asked Oryan. Oryan didn’t reply immediately, but finally nodded. “Then trust him,” Tamrus finished.
“Where did this Roanoke come from?” Stehli asked as he watched the video from the Imperial Palace slaughter and the attack on Obsidian.
Oryan shrugged. “I don’t know. Sicari only mentioned him once.”
Thunder rolled overhead. “And you know nothing of this extermination camp?” Tamrus asked about the rumors circulating about a camp for the refugees of Obsidian which was anything but a safe haven for displaced souls.
“You know as much as I do,” Oryan admitted. “After what I saw in the Archide camp, I wouldn’t dismiss the rumors.”
“If what you’ve stated is accurate, it would seem to be Kovac’s—or Damrich’s—way of making a statement.” Stehli shook his head. “I still have a hard time believing something like that exists.”
Oryan pulled his gaze from outside the pod. “Any news on Kovac’s whereabouts?”
“None. Thomas is on his way back from tracking Balsa. We were hoping he could give us answers, but the trail went cold on an island off the coast of Navarus just big enough to house a single willow tree.” Tamrus said flatly.
“The sooner you find him the better.” Oryan sighed.
“It would go a lot faster if you helped us,” Tamrus suggested.
“That’s what Sicari said, too. I’m done trying to save the world. I just want to protect my family.”
“Oryan…” Tamrus’s tone returned to its fatherly concern. “The home I’m giving you is as remote as it comes, it’s safe, and it’s a place I can find you, should either of us need the other. There are a handful of people in the entire world who know it’s there. It’s yours, but are you sure? About him, I mean?”
“Well, your one condition was that I have a bodyguard. Since you’ve got Ethanis running all over the world, that leaves a very short list of people I trust.” Oryan’s face remained stoic. His stomach churned with anxiety. This would be two friends he thought he’d lost, that he would be reunited with. Despite the circumstances for both, he was elated to reconnect.
“Aside from Roanoke—Kovac, Balsa, and Sicari seem to have only you in common. You’re in danger, which means Celeste and Asher are too. You risk exposure doing this personally.”
“As opposed to sending undercover soldiers who have no idea why they’re picking him up, tossing him into a pod, and absconding to another country?” Oryan raised his eyebrow. “He’s my friend, and I’m about to ask him to uproot his entire life. This is the only way.”
“You haven’t spoken to him in a
long time,” Tamrus pressed. “Think of what’s changed for you since you saw him last. I’ve done my homework. He’s past his prime at best and a slightly functional drunk at worst.”
Oryan smirked. “Yeah…and I’m dead.”
The pod pulled alongside the arena, and Oryan exited in the pouring rain. He turned to Stehli and Tamrus before he closed the door. “I’ll signal when I’ve got him.”
Tamrus leaned forward. “Oryan, I want you to be sure—”
Oryan closed the door and walked inside.
***
The arena was an original, constructed in the sport’s infancy, and its age, coupled with a lack of upkeep, showed dramatically. Rust and water damage seeped through the high ceilings. The beams and trusses dripped with age and decay. The floor was a patchwork quilt of shabby replacement pieces. After a while, it seemed the current caretakers didn’t even care if a similar material was used to repair the damaged parts.
The downfall of the sport, like the arena, was tied to his legacy. He had nearly killed Agrion in a very public setting. After that, everything changed. For the sport to continue, new rules and safety regulations were put into place. The heavy restrictions made the sport less popular. The crowds were smaller, which meant less money, which meant the investors were fewer and farther between. The sport returned underground to avoid the regulations, and so the raw violence eclipsed the skill. Dives like this one represented the dying embers of the once world-class event. The irony did not escape Oryan that it wasn’t just people who had suffered because of him.
To his right and left sat a sparse crowd. The majority of them were filthy, drunken slime. Each flabby gut, unshaven face, and toothless, gaping mouth reminded Oryan of the man who had introduced him to this world in the first place.
The weight of the aging arena settled on Oryan’s shoulders. This sport had been a second birth for him. It represented hard work, sacrifice, pain, and discipline. Now, it was a trough where bottom feeders, criminals, and thugs came to vomit. In six months’ time, this place could be considered derelict. Six more, it could be condemned.
The main event was announced. This was the moment he had been waiting for. One of the finalists was a true Centauri—a throwback to the glory days when an event like this still held meaning. Most respectable Centauri had long since bowed out, but there were others who still participated in the speedily diminishing sport. Those who remained did so because they knew nothing else. They had drunk the bitter cup of the Centauri life for so long, they had no concept of life beyond it. The last holdouts gave the sport the life support it needed to stay alive. Sadly, much like the competition he’d clung to, Tecton Colvitt was a shadow of what he once was. He was just too stubborn to accept it yet.
Oryan watched him enter. The last time he had seen him in person, he was far leaner. His youthful, trim physique had been replaced by a man older, heavier, and battle-worn. He seemed strong but tired. The fire Oryan was accustomed to had been replaced by a dispassionate gaze.
Tecton’s countenance said, When this place crumbles, so do I. It can’t come soon enough, but please, God, don’t let it come today.
The smile that had passed over Oryan faded, and his elation at seeing his old friend diminished into sympathy and pain. He had caused this. His actions in another life had brought his friend to ruin. His heart ached for him.
The fight commenced. Tecton certainly moved slower than in years past. His new weight brought with it new power. He might not land as many blows, but the ones he did were devastating. Speed had been replaced by force.
Oryan watched the fourth and fifth rounds slip past. Tecton was in a commanding lead over the challenger, but both men were still in the game. Oryan could not help but feel Tecton was merely carrying the younger, less experienced opponent. It could be because he wanted to keep the sport alive by putting on a better show and thus saving himself for one more day. It could also be more altruistic. It could simply be that Tecton still held to the old days and wanted to give the boy the honor his dedication and training deserved. Let him have hope, however small, and he’ll be back tomorrow to try again. Oryan chose to believe the latter.
As if Tecton was acknowledging his faith in him, he peered up from his corner. For a fleeting moment, he swore Tecton picked him out of the crowd. Oryan felt exposed and joyful simultaneously. The bell rang, and he stood to go on for another round.
Tecton was light on his feet now. He danced and bounded around the ring just as Oryan had taught him. He moved with elegance and grace, choosing the right time and the right placement for every action. It was like music, giving everything around it a new soul. The dust and disgust faded along with the quality of the people in attendance. Everyone scooted to the edge of their seats; one or two rose from them. It was the glory days restored, if only for a fleeting second.
And then it ended. His opponent fell for the final time to superior skill, and Tecton was declared victor. The crowd was oddly silent. There was no immediate applause, only a look on every person’s face begging for an encore performance. Oryan closed his eyes and absorbed the honor and the pride. It soaked into his blood. It transcended the grease and the slime and, for a moment, he remembered what made the harsh Centauri life worth the punishment.
The crowd dispersed; the cleaning staff came behind, halfheartedly removing the newest layer of grime from the arena. The main lights were extinguished with a heavy thud, leaving only the dim emergency lights still lit. Many flickered and many more were out.
Oryan waited for the crowd to leave, made his way to the front row, and then let himself onto the arena floor. Despite its condition, a thousand memories seeped into his joints.
Just as he anticipated, after the fanfare had left and only the dim light remained, Tecton emerged from the arena’s belly. There was a tattered gym bag over his shoulder with shoes tied to the straps. He drank heavily from a bottle before putting it and the bag down.
He climbed into the ring and began his usual ritual. He bounced on his toes, circling the ring, attacking his mental foe. He ducked and punched, replaying the last match over and over.
“For a fat old man, you still move pretty well,” Oryan chided.
Tecton stopped. He didn’t respond at first, nor did he turn in the direction the voice echoed from. “Big talk from a dead man.”
Oryan stepped from the shadows and slipped the hood off his head. Tecton turned at last to acknowledge him.
“Well, hell sent me back.” He climbed from the floor onto the outside of the ring.
“That’s a shock. Even there, I’m sure every damned fool screamed your name.”
Oryan stuck his nose in the air and pushed out his chest. “It’s hard to be humble when you’re this good.”
Tecton gestured for Oryan to step into the center. “Dead men should’ve learned humility.”
“They should’ve stopped breathing, too.”
The pair sparred for the first time in ages. The familiar dance quickly came back to them. Tecton was eager for actual competition, and Oryan was anxious to stretch muscles he had not used in some time.
Oryan’s recent ordeal weighed heavily on his performance, but he remained agile and able. He was still inhumanly fast and had lost none of his precision. Tecton, on the other hand, used a new bag of tricks—things he had not learned from his old mentor. It wasn’t long before blood was drawn, and Tecton was seated firmly on the mat with Oryan on his hands and knees. Both were gasping for breath, exhausted from even a small contest. The sweat dripped from Oryan’s nose. Tecton wiped the blood from under his.
Finally, Oryan made eye contact with his old friend. Tecton’s hair was receding prematurely. What was left was unkempt. His face was a combination of fatigue and punishment. His swollen nose, coupled with blood smeared cheeks, suddenly became very comical to Oryan. He laughed.
Tecton saw an equally looking ridiculous man who used to do this, and far more, for hours at a time. He started to chuckle until a true, gut laugh filled the ar
ena and echoed back onto them. For the first time in a long time, they both forgot about everything else and simply reveled in their amusement.
***
Tecton’s son had died when he was still very young. A rare disease had taken him from the world, and Tecton had been living in a bottle ever since. For Oryan, choosing Tecton as Tamrus’s required bodyguard was more than just a reunion with an old friend, but a chance for Tecton to be an uncle since he couldn’t be a father.
Asher took to Tecton almost immediately and vice-versa. Celeste was wary of everyone. After almost six months, and despite Oryan’s nearly constant reassurance, she interacted with Tecton as little as possible but watched him like a hawk, especially when he was around Asher. She vocally disapproved of his drinking and he did his best not to do it around her or Asher.
She and Oryan watched as Tecton fell to a knee after Asher performed a very-well-executed wrestling move. Though he was still far too small to actually knock him down, Tecton was not one to let good effort go unrewarded. After congratulating him on his success, he educated the boy on what he should do next. Shadow, who had been there since the rescue from Sicari, lay on the ground, content to have his family back.
Sweat trickled down Oryan’s bare chest as he had only minutes ago finished teaching Asher more of the sport he and Tecton knew so well. In teaching his son he demonstrated the moves on Tecton, who, of course, didn’t make it easy. More than once the teaching demonstration turned into an all-out match between two aggressive competitors who also happened to be fierce friends.
Celeste, who taunted and laughed at her husband while cheering on her son, stayed out personally, though she occasionally instructed him when the men were done beating their chests. Now, she sat next to her husband wearing an orange sun-dress and letting her bare feet caress the cool grass.
“You’re out of shape, old man,” she chided Oryan.
He grinned. “You still can’t handle me.”
Celeste gave him an incredulous look. “You wouldn’t stop me even if you wanted to.”
