Renegade Rising (The Renegade Series)

by J. C. Fiske

  “Thanks,” Gisbo managed to reply.

  “I know what you are up to. You’re going to finish the job on Thomson and I want to help. I’ve received far too many wedgies in my day to let it slide anymore. Please, let me help. I think IAM truly had us cross paths purposefully today,” Rolce blabbed on, still grinning.

  Gisbo did not know what to say or think. It came as a shock to his system to realize that he wasn’t alone in his hatred. He had been self-centered for so long, thinking he was the only one who had to live with all this conflict and pain, and yet here was a boy who had been bullied as well and who truly looked up to him. The kid’s face was beaming just being in his presence. At that moment, a brick wall around Gisbo’s heart was removed. Gisbo wasn’t about to let the guy down.

  “Well, you can believe whatever the hell you want, but I’m rushing at Thomson and his goons head on. Follow if you want, I could use a buddy,” Gisbo said with a grin, truly making Rolce’s day.

  “It looks like they are about to start this thing. Man, am I nervous! Just do whatever you did to those apples and we are all set. I can’t imagine why you never made the clash team . . .” Rolce replied as he raised his weapon and stood in attack position.

  “Have you seen those handkerchiefs? Only pansies get in,” Gisbo joked. Rolce laughed nervously and readied himself for the signal to begin as Captain Ricard made his way to the outside of the circle.

  “Is everybody ready?” questioned Captain Ricard. There was silence. “I SAID, IS EVERYBODY READY!!??” Captain Ricard’s voiced boomed again. The kids all let out a loud jumble of mixed cheers. Ricard smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes! When this sash touches the ground, you may begin. This is it, boys and girls, the final test. Succeed for your family’s honor, succeed for Warlord Karm, and most importantly, succeed for yourselves! Now, without further delay . . .”

  With a raise of his powerful arm, Captain Ricard tossed the blue sash upward. Everyone watched as it floated slowly down and hit the ground. Everyone froze. Nobody moved. They all stared in awkward silence at each other, waiting for someone to begin, anyone, anyone at all. There was suddenly a loud obnoxious yell, more beast-like than human. All eyes turned to find the source only to see Gisbo rush through the midst of them with Rolce following close behind.

  “Alright! Let’s get this thing started!” hollered Thomson. He jumped forward and swung his pole at an unsuspecting girl’s head. With a loud crack, the poor girl fell to the ground, unconscious, her pigtails draped over the top of her head lazily. There weren’t a whole lot of things that made Gisbo upset, but there were a whole lot of things that enraged him. Upon seeing the cruelty of Thomson towards the young girl, Gisbo lost all sense of reason as he sprinted even faster to his destination, screaming the whole way there. Noise suddenly erupted as the young warriors dove at each other with wood clashing against wood.

  Thomson and his gang ran after every lone fighter and began picking him or her off like flies stuck in a dessert. It was then the son of Ricard noticed the rampaging Gisbo flying toward him and, for the first time in his life, he felt truly afraid. He had never seen such fury in the eyes of a boy. It was like something out of a nightmare. Nonetheless, Thomson was warrior born and refused to show fear. He fed off of it instead and braced himself for his attacker. As promised, thirty or so children dropped their poles and ran out of the circle crying and clutching their sides.

  The moment Gisbo had been waiting for was here. He and Thomson would clash in the ways of the old world, as warriors would, with everything on the line. Only one boy would walk away with his dreams intact. They would leave it all on the battlefield, every last bad memory, and all unfinished business would be justified. Gisbo had never felt more confident in all his life as he parried his first blow with Thomson, barely even realizing his hands were moving to block.

  They met each other’s blows in a crisscross, their wooden poles forming a perfect “X” as their eyes met, snarls formed and their battle cries rivaled all others within their circular world of warfare. There would be no words exchanged. The time for talking was over. Thomson turned to his goons and with one word they understood.

  “Go!” shouted Thomson. Heff and the others scattered to defend themselves from oncoming battlers. Rolce stood behind Gisbo, frozen, not knowing what to do until a girl jumped at him from the side and barely missed him. Rolce quickly raised his weapon up in defense, momentarily leaving Gisbo and Thomson on their own.

  Thomson was just as excited for this moment. How dare some wild dog challenge his standing and hunt down his fellow wolves as if he were their equal? Nobody, that was who. Nobody dared oppose the captain of the clash team and the only boy Warlord Karm favored. He was son of the general. His bloodline was noble. And yet, here was a boy, a mere, uncouth, bastard child, who felt no reason to give him the respect his bloodline brought him.

  Thomson felt doubt and fear for the first time and this led to hatred that pulsed with power. The wild boy even bruised his face, stuffed dirt down his throat. He humiliated him in front of everyone, but worst of all, he made Thomson question the value of his abilities. The bastard would pay and he would shake this feeling of doubt only upon the barbarian boy’s defeat. He had to be rid of it. Everything now rode on this fight; his reputation, his dignity, his self-assurance and the worst part about it, Thomson realized, was while he had everything to lose, the bastard boy had everything to gain.

  Gisbo’s fury was an asset for sure. When he got angry, it seemed his body moved of its own accord and all of his senses seemed heightened and alive. Rage never blinded him. It only enhanced what was already there and this rage was the only thing allowing him to stand toe to toe against the experience Thomson had. Gisbo had received not one iota of instruction on how to swing a weapon, ever. Street fighting was his only means of gaining experience, but that was entirely different. Thomson’s life, by contrast, had been filled with training from the best of the best. The stuck up brat knew the tactics of battle simulation and, for him, this was no more then an extreme form of just another clash game. As much as Gisbo hated to admit, Thomson was no slouch.

  Both Gisbo and Thomson tried to push each other off their weapons as they pressed them forward, digging their feet into the ground below. Not even the earth would be left unscarred as the boy’s dreams came head to head.

  Thomson’s experience began to show as he nimbly pulled away and spun to the right, causing Gisbo to fall forward with his back unprotected. Thomson cracked a swift strike to Gisbo’s side in an attempt to take his breath from him. Gisbo reeled in pain, giving Thomson momentary confidence as he went for Gisbo’s head in a wild swing.

  There was no way Gisbo would be able to raise his weapon in time to counter now. Thomson knew he had him. This maneuver had given him many a victory on the clash field, however, this was no clash field and Gisbo was no clash player.

  In an unexpected maneuver, Gisbo dropped his sword and caught Thomson’s weapon in mid swing. Gisbo jumped upward, leaned back, and kicked out with both of his feet into Thomson’s chest, breaking the wooden pole in two and sending the surprised boy to the ground, stunned. Gisbo landed harmlessly on his back while Thomson fell into a roll landing flat on his chest. Thomson curled into a ball as he clutched his chest in pain.

  Ricard stood from his seat, his face full of dismay at the sight of his son in a position he had never seen before, on the ground and in pain. Cannon rose to his feet as well, stood on his chair, and whispered in Ricard’s ear. Ricard raised his hand while shaking his head. Thomson saw this, but Gisbo did not as he ran toward his fallen enemy, holding the broken pieces of Thomson’s weapon in each hand.

  In a desperate maneuver, Thomson charged upward, shoving his shoulder into Gisbo’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. As Gisbo hunched downward, Thomson flipped him over his shoulders and attempted to grab the half of the sword held in Gisbo’s left hand. Try as he might, however, Gisbo would not let go. Instead, Gisbo swung his other pole overhead, hitting Th
omson’s main sword hand hard. The sound of fracturing bones was music to Gisbo’s ears. Thomson reared back and clutched at his injured hand.

  Back on his feet now, Gisbo clenched both of his weapon-filled hands firmly and marched once again towards his enemy. Thomson retreated backward and Gisbo pursued him. Luckily for Thomson, he was ambidextrous. He managed to grab Gisbo’s original fallen sword and he brought it up in an upward thrust to block Gisbo’s next advance, making a loud CLANK noise.

  Thomson quickly realized that as far as close quarters went, Gisbo outmatched him. He was more muscular and quicker, but he was far from skillful. Wielding the longer weapon, Thomson put it to good use by using it to keep the distance. He quickly adapted to the stance of a fencer and now held his weapon with one hand and thrust forward, forcing Gisbo to block his advances and match his quick footwork. Gisbo’s clumsy feet had no chance and Thomson did not let up as he graced Gisbo’s ribs and shoulders with quick, painful stabs. Try as he might, Gisbo could not advance forward and could not retreat backward quick enough to counter. Thomson was now making him look like an absolute amateur as he took a quick jab to his forehead.

  Stunned, but far from from done, Gisbo tried dropping one of his weapons to grab Thomson's like before, but to no avail. Thomson was moving far too fast and only graced his temple with another blow, dazing Gisbo enough to cause him to flinch. Thomson seized the opportunity as he swung again for Gisbo’s head. At the last possible moment, Gisbo managed to raise his forearms in a cross shape, blocking the blow, but sending him crashing to the ground. Not about to let the opportunity pass, Thomson rushed upon Gisbo, kicking him hard in his kidney, followed by another kick to his stomach that knocked the wind right out of him once more. It was now Gisbo’s turn to curl into a ball as he fought desperately to regain his breath. Thomson stood over Gisbo and allowed a premature victory smile to spread across his face. He shot a quick glance at his father, who gave him a nod and a proud smile.

  Gisbo tried desperately to stand up, but it was no use. Hist stomach twanged and sent a shudder of pain throughout his body. The son of Ricard raised his weapon high, ready to put his full body weight behind a single blow that would end it, but that was when Rolce arrived. In that instant, Rolce’s weapon stepped between Thomson’s victory and Gisbo’s defeat.

  “Get up, man! It’s not over yet!” Rolce yelled at Gisbo. The enraged Thomson went mad with fury and struck out a low sideswipe to the corner of Rolce’s knee. There was a loud cracking noise and it wasn’t from the wooden pole. Rolce screamed in agony as he buckled to the ground, clutching his now broken knee. Thomson stood over the boy and let fly an abundant amount of curses as he beat Rolce’s body like a sack of dirty laundry. Blow after blow, Rolce screamed until he finally fell silent.

  It was then something happened, something that would change the life of Gisbo, no surname, forever. Maybe it was listening to Rolce’s screams of pain that did it. Either way, like a force of nature, it was unavoidable.

  WHOOSH! Suddenly, Gisbo’s eyes ignited into burning flames! Each pupil lit up with its own internal fire, looking like miniature comets. Gisbo’s vision went completely red and the sounds around him grew muffled. It was almost as if he were underwater in a pool of blood, staring up through the surface. Where most pools cooled you off, this one did the opposite. Gisbo felt as if his very insides were swelling like a hot marshmallow over a fire. His skin hurt, his eyes bulged and the hair on the back of his neck stood up so high it felt as if they were trying to tear themselves free of him. In spite of it all however, Gisbo only knew one thing.

  He liked it.

  Before he even knew what was happening, he was on his feet again and charged at a stunned Thomson, who stood frozen under his gaze. Each of Gisbo’s fists felt as if they had a life of their own. Thomson tried to stab his stick forward to stop the rampaging advance, but to no avail. Gisbo bashed his stick down with two interlocked fists, swung them around and smashed Thomson in the stomach with such blunt force that Thomson spat blood before he fell helplessly to the ground.

  Gisbo leapt into the air higher than he thought he could and landed with both knees in Thomson’s stomach, sending up more blood from the boy’s throat. Before Gisbo was about to land a fury of punches, he was interrupted by a loud CLANG that resounded off the side of his head. His vision went hazy and the surface of the red pool he was looking through suddenly ringed out as if someone chucked a rock into it. He then felt hands on him and the next thing he knew was that he was flying through the air, out of the circle and into an armory station. Helmets and chest plates fell off their stands and dropped all over Gisbo, burying him a pile of steel. It was then his red vision cleared and he saw the bright blue sky and then looked down to see General Ricard lowering his metallic sword sheath and standing over his son’s beaten body.

  “Tend to him,” Ricard said, motioning to his son. He then marched straight for Gisbo. His features quivered with rage.

  He . . . he hit me, right on the side of the head like a freaking sports ball. Why is it always my head? Gisbo found himself thinking.

  Ricard reattached his sheath to his belt before he dragged Gisbo out of the pile by his neck, across the ring and onto the wooden performance stage meant for theater and announcements. All had gone silent after Ricard had entered the ring and every boy and girl had immediately stopped fighting. They were stuck in a dilemma of fear, not knowing whether to be more frightened by the boy whose eyes erupted into fire or by General Ricard’s sudden brutality. Cannon and Scarrr stood at the ready next to Ricard, surveying the silent crowd with stony, glowering faces. After a very long pause, Ricard spoke.

  “Future Elekai’ warriors. To all of you who remain standing, this title is now a great possibility. You may relax. You are qualified to continue on into our fold, all except for one. I know you are confused as to what exactly is going on and why I had to step in. If you look closely, you all know exactly who this boy is. He has been to your schoolhouse and lived among you his entire life, the wild dog, Gisbo.

  “I am sure I have jogged many of your memories by this point and for good reason. When you think of this boy, I am sure you instantly recall many of his well-known characteristics . . . violent, unpredictable, dangerous and the like. You all felt threatened by his wild tendencies and, in turn, isolated him from your groups of friends, your social get togethers. You may have felt a bit bad about this, but I am here to tell you something different. Your intuition has served you well, even though you could not have known this boy’s evil origins,” Ricard said. The word “evil” was whispered through the crowd.

  “The boy that now sits before me is a surviving Flarian!” Ricard revealed. A gasp of surprise and horror arose.

  “As residents of Warlord Karm’s kingdom, we found this boy when he was but a child, just outside the city wall, and having the merciful and wise Warlord that we do, Karm allowed him a chance to be brought into our fold. Although suspicious of his origin, we nonetheless gave this boy compassion and a chance at normalcy, hoping that nurture would supercede nature, hoping he would be different. I hate to say it, but we were wrong. What you have seen here today is a witness to why the once revered color red is now outlawed and why the Flarian’s barbaric race was extinguished and outlawed. Their elemental fire and the temper that smolders within them is uncontrollable. They are a danger to all within their range. For your own safety, I was forced to step in before his newfound elemental abilities awakened any further. I know not where he is hiding his stone, but it is of no matter now. We have tried the fair and just methods and are left with no other choice but one. To save a rabbit den, you must kill the fox. The boy known as Gisbo will now die by my sword,” Ricard proclaimed. All eyes were on Ricard and Gisbo as the general unsheathed his sword, ever so slowly.

  Stone? I don’t have a freakin' stone! All this time . . . I finally know why everyone hates me and now, now I'm going to . . . Gisbo's mind raced. Cannon and Scarrr tightened their grip on him and Ricard moved his bla
de gently over Gisbo’s exposed neck, preparing to strike when…

  BUMP!

  A man in a white cloak, wielding only a broom, collided with the general from behind, nearly knocking him over. Ricard, stunned, turned in to see a lowly janitor humming to himself while he swept the staging area, not even aware that he had knocked into the esteemed general. The Elekai’ Elite were at a loss for words as the man continued on with his cleaning, humming to himself and making swishing sounds with his broom as he moved back and forth with little skips. Finally, Ricard found words.

  “Janitor! Can you not see what lies before you? Did you not hear what is going on at this moment?” Ricard said, his bewildered tone also tense. The janitor looked up now, looking as if he had awakened from a dream, and smiled.

  “Apologies sent in your direction and yours alone, my good sir! Why…YOU! You are General Ricard! The leader of the Elekai' Elite! I humbly cast a slew of apologies in your direction upon this realization, forgive me, forgive me. Falcon is the name and I am at your service, my dear general,” Falcon said in an upbeat tone. He suddenly snapped to attention, as thin as a board, and saluted. Then the smell of the man’s cloak hit the proud warriors nostrils. The Elekai' Elite gagged and grasped their noses in desperation at the horrible smell. Eyes watering, Ricard waved the air, coughed and found his voice once more.

  “Aye, apologies granted. Now please, make your way off the stage. This is not the time to . . .” Ricard started, but he was soon interrupted.