by J. C. Fiske
This should prove interesting, Falcon thought to himself, excited. He had not once come across a fencer on the battlefield. Fencing was thought to be an outdated practice as it was not invented to face multiple opponents, leaving the wielder with an obvious weakness out on the battlefield. However, this was no battlefield and a fencer dominated in one-on-one combat. Insofar as weapons were concerned, Ricard held the advantage.
For now . . . Falcon thought.
Ricard watched his opponent take his stance, enjoying the fact that Falcon was taking him seriously. The general then held his sword upward, pointed to the sky. Oddly enough, all of Ricard’s roaring blue essence began to be absorbed back into his sword, making the general’s veins glow even brighter as he compressed the released energy back within himself. Falcon was really surprised by his use of this maneuver. It was known as the compression technique, a Flarian technique, born out of necessity to help control their swirling fire and not harm others. Doing so did have its advantages however. It enhanced all of the users physical attributes, including speed, reflexes and adrenaline production, all at the same time. It also allowed for unwasteful energy consumption, allowing them to stay powered up for longer periods of time. Ricard had indeed done his homework and Falcon couldn’t be more estactic as he raised his own blade to the sky and mimicked the maneuver, compressing his own swirling fire back into himself.
“Flarian, I beg of you, do not hold yourself back from me. As a fellow warrior, grant me this small pleasure. The unknown limits of my prowess have been unbearable. I’ve had no one able to test me. Please, throw your all at me. I hold you in utmost respect and simply must uphold the laws of my Warlord and the Freeists. Let bygones be bygones as we do battle, agreed?” Ricard asked, addressing Falcon with respect. Falcon did not smile or show an ounce of humor as he answered the General.
“Do not discuss politics with me. Freeist or Purist, it matters not. I am a Renegade, separated from petty party squabbles and wielder of my own ideals. The values one wishes to uphold and protect determines their role in life, not parties. Let us pour our very beings into this battle, spend ourselves for the glory of our causes and may IAM uphold the victor,” Falcon answered.
In a flash, the two men disappeared from their stationary positions with an air sucking noise, as if they had teleported. People gazed all over, looking for them in surprise until sparks of red and blue flashed across the ground. The air reverberated with loud cracks of ringing steel. Gisbo’s eyes could barely keep up. A smile stretched across Gisbo's face as he witnessed a battle like no other. This talk of Freeists and Purists Gisbo knew nothing about, but the thought didn’t remain long. The two warriors suddenly vanished once more and reappeared halfway across the courtyard. It was here Falcon and Ricard finally slowed, realizing they could not gain openings with quick footwork. They now moved on to true swordplay.
Ricard went on the offensive and pummeled Falcon with quick stabs and thrusts. However, Falcon, in an odd array of wild swings, dodges and feigns, gracefully countered the general for everything he could throw at him and nearly caused Ricard to lose his balance a few times. Gisbo noticed that as far as power and footwork were concerned, they were dead equal. But as far as swordplay was concerned, it was clearly Falcon’s unorthodox style, or lack of style, that held the advantage over the fencer. This was not due to one style being better than the other, but simply because Falcon’s reflexes were in another league.
The Renegade swirled his sword in a figure eight fashion, completing each rotation faster than Ricard could draw back and thrust his sword forward. Ricard understood that Falcon was feeling him out, first for power, then footwork and now handiwork. He knew now where Falcon had the advantage. Because of this, he forced him to switch to the next stage. The historic writings of the Renegades and Flarians made them seem like mindless berserkers. Could the books be wrong? Ricard gritted his teeth as Falcon now held the upper hand and went on the offensive.
What is going on? Ricard thought. The reports never mentioned Flarians or Renegades fighting in this manner. And yet, here one stands with a highly controlled disposition. In a mere thirty seconds he has felt me out and found an advantage! Every strike has rage and power behind it, but . . . it is not mindless, it’s controlled! What is going on?
Essence, footwork, handiwork. These were three requirements for every Elekai’ warrior. But there was one more and Ricard switched to it quickly. It was time to move the focus to technique and here he knew he had the Renegade outclassed. The amount of material exclusively for him, the general, was nearly limitless. When he wasn’t training his body, Ricard devoted hours of his time to technique, studying everything available to him, pulling from various sources and forging his own signature methods.
Ricard managed a quick dodge and then struck out with a wild attack, causing a fierce backlash, which sent both men flying backward in opposite directions. Both fighters landed neatly on their feet and Ricard mentally praised himself. The first part to his strategy had worked. He now had the distance he needed to unleash his first technique. For the first time in decades, Ricard felt unsure of victory. A repressed anxiety surfaced and washed over him. Strangely enough, he loved it. Never had he faced an opponent like Falcon before. The uncertainty made the general feel alive once again, as a true smile of joy stretched across the warrior's face. He gripped his handle a little tighter and called upon the essence needed to unleash his inner powers. As always, he loved the tingling, tickling sensation in his veins as he did so.
Ricard first thrust out a temporary wall of ice, as transparent as glass, to prevent Falcon from interfering with his technique. The Renegade watched with care as Ricard cut a circle in the ground with his sword's tip, surrounding his body. Upon completion of the circle, hot steam shot from the cuts in the ground in a loud hissing noise, surrounding the general in a thick, steaming fog. Falcon and the crowd watched the fog swirl round and round to form eight needle-like shapes in the air. The needles began to swell and form into hefty icicles, all with extremely sharp points at each end. The spear-like tapers began to revolve around Ricard in a tight circle as the wall of ice melted away, replaced by this odd new protection. What was even more eerily mesmerizing was that within the core of each icicle, the same steaming fog substance swirled like tiny caged tornados.
“I have studied the abilities of the Flarian for years, Renegade. Out of all of us, it was you who specialized in the use of heat to torment your foes. You were practically built with the ability to destroy life. It is safe to assume, should one wish to burn their victims, that one would need to acquire fire. We humanoids are so very fragile to heat, after all. Even the metallic armor we wear can be melted into liquid form at the proper temperature. Yes, heat is the universal weakness of life, but who said fire was the only substance to emit it most effectively? The common man realizes that fire, like everything else, can be snuffed out with water - but that is just so boring.
“Some say water gives life, while fire takes it. From this logic, a common belief was formed and the Flarians were banned from the plains of civilization. For every individual Flarian who could control their flame, there were ten more in line who could not and the obvious outcome occurred. However, I think a little differently. I respect the powers of Flarians, even obsessed over them for a time. How suitable they are for war and combat. I wanted the abilities of your people for myself and so, discontent with mere aquatic powers, I did some research and I found out how wrong I was. Nearly the opposite was true, Renegade, as I will now show you and this crowd the fruits of my labor. I’d tell you to prepare yourself, but there is no way you possibly can,” Ricard boasted with a confident smile.
The general raised his sword high in the air and one of the large icicles shot into the sky like a rocket. Falcon followed it a ways with his eyes until it was lost to view. Ricard then pointed his blade forward in Falcon’s direction. SHOOM! The icicle descended, breaking the sound barrier as it shot downward towards Falcon. The Renegade rolled to
the right as the large icicle crashed into the ground, breaking into hundreds of tiny shards. It was then Falcon realized his mistake. Ricard was not trying to hit him head on. The general wanted him to dodge. Ricard made his icicles hit at a precise angle. The ice was only a container for the real weapon, the steam inside. The force of the impact shot the steam directly at Falcon. The general even forecasted what side Falcon would roll to. Warlord Karm had chosen his second in command well.
In a last ditch effort, the Renegade twirled his blade like a fan. It deflected most of the substance, but not enough. The steam made contact with Falcon’s fingers and his flesh was permeated. The glands in his skin absorbed the steam like a sponge to water. The pain pulsed through his fingers, forcing him to drop his blade. With the loss of his sword, Falcon lost contact with his elemental power and his veins converted to their normal state. However, Ricard’s attack was not finished yet . . .
The remaining ice shards from the blast began to vibrate and they suddenly shot toward Falcon’s dropped blade, encasing it in an icy shell. Once encased in its icy prison, the frozen blade shot through the air and joined the icicle display hovering around Ricard, replacing the broken piece. Falcon stood powerless while Captain Ricard grinned from ear to ear. He had won and it was about time the Renegade heard an earful about it.
“It’s over, Renegade. I see you are starting to understand what I was speaking of before. Fire may be the supreme element for absolute destruction, but there is a far greater way to dispose of a human. Steam is infinitely more deadly to the skin than just an ordinary dry heat burn. If one accidentally puts his arm into a flame, he has time to pull it out before suffering damage. Steam is another story. Should a quick release of steam grace your flesh, it immediately goes to work, as the skin absorbs it. Enough steam can literally melt the flesh off one’s bones in seconds. I wonder, can an animated skeleton walk? I’ve yet to see. I only know that I have mastered the technique of controlling temperatures according to my will, heating or cooling water molecules to unknown degrees while supernaturally maintaining its form. I can even encase steam within ice, as I have demonstrated. How? Well, I can’t give away all my secrets, now can I?” Ricard said, enjoying himself. He loved the way his voice sounded. He had won and, best of all, he had a crowd of people, his people, here to witness it.
Falcon stood quietly, staring at his weapon floating around Ricard with longing in his eyes. The general’s face flushed with color and pride, knowing that the people would never doubt the strength of the Elekai Elite again.
“Well, Renegade, with your source of power gone and your hands unable to hold a weapon, I grow tired of you. Present and past have collided here today and I now know the question that has been plaguing me for decades. Clearly, you outmatch me in physical combat and essential energies, the Renegade specialties, but your time away has greatly limited your research and mastery of technique. Much has changed since your days in the castle walls and hosts of new abilities have been discovered. Nothing like mine, of course. I do respect you, but you understand that I cannot let you walk away. I must uphold the law and instead of one Flarian dying today, there must now be two. As much as I . . .”
“Foolish squawking turkey . . .” Falcon interrupted with mystifying calm. Ricard's face went white as he watched Falcon raise his right hand upward, showing what appeared to be a ring on his finger containing a familiar red stone in the band. The ring began to glow a bright burning red as elemental essence charged through Falcon’s body.
Ricard’s eyes widened as he glanced down at Falcon’s sword encased in ice and it too began to glow the same fierce red. The ice around it began to crack. The sword itself thrashed and vibrated with red energy. Falcon thrust his ring forward in a tight fist and a red rope of energy shot from the ring and connected itself to the sword's stone hilt like a grappling hook.
What!? No! He was toying with me this whole time? Impossible! I . . . and with that, Ricard thought his last conscious thought for the day. Falcon’s sword ignited fully, exploding like a firebomb. The force sent the general flying through the courtyard like an awkwardly loosed arrow and he slammed hard into the castle wall. The stones cracked all around him from the impact of the general’s strong armor and the remaining ice shards followed him, penetrating deep into every unprotected part of his body, turning Ricard into a human dart board. Ricard then passed out, not from the force of impact or the pain, but from the sight of his own bleeding body.
Falcon looked at his fallen opponent and saluted. He then cleared his throat and walked through the charred grass, retrieved his sword, sheathed it, and calmly strode toward Gisbo humming a little tune. The guards restraining Gisbo quickly let him go and backed up slowly with their hands out in front of them, showing they were not a threat. Falcon nodded and then the guards split like squirrels, rushing to the aid of their desecrated general.
Gisbo rose to his feet, unable to take his eyes off Falcon, unable to believe that it was only yesterday that man stood before him in the rain, wearing his nasty white cloak. And now here he was once more, standing in the sunlight, graced in the attire of a Renegade. It was then a slight breeze came and shuffled his blue cape and bandana tails. Falcon smiled.
“Come, my friend, and make your dreams anew,” Falcon said. With that, he turned and walked straight out of the courtyard, still humming to himself.
Gisbo followed.
Chapter Five: The Truth Revealed
To Gisbo, it felt like it took a lifetime to walk out of the city and, strangely enough, nobody followed. Even so, he still found himself looking over his shoulder, expecting to see a slew of guards trying to take advantage of Falcon’s injured state, but none came. He then reminded himself that the man had just defeated the general of the Elekai’ Elite with no more then a flick of a wrist.
Gisbo walked along silently behind Falcon, watching him hum and whistle to himself casually. Gisbo doubted that Falcon even knew the ramifications of his actions. The Renegade challenged the strength of the strongest and trounced not one, but three. Did he even realize how this would affect the people? They would be telling this story for centuries to come with no need for exaggeration. The future generation may not believe it, but those that saw it would likely never forget. Where were you the day the Renegade came? Gisbo thought with a laugh.
Falcon suddenly stopped and Gisbo realized they were finally at his small shack of a home. New graffiti had somehow, magically, come overnight. Gisbo shook his head and muttered a curse under his breath.
“Well, pack your necessities and we’ll be off!” Falcon said with an upbeat little cheer. Gisbo was stunned. He stared at Falcon with a dumbfounded look.
“Are you serious!? After all that walking in silence, after . . . after . . . oh man . . . I can’t even believe what you just did back there! After all that, you just expect me to willingly pack up and leave, no questions asked? Just like that?” Gisbo demanded, bewildered. Now it was Falcon’s turn to give a dumbfounded stare.
“Um, do you plan on staying here, champ?” Falcon asked straightforward. Gisbo then realized how stupid his question must have sounded to the man who had saved his life.
“Uh, no! Of course not!” Gisbo replied. There was a brief pause that was awkward for both of them.
“Well, pack your necessities and we’ll be off!” Falcon repeated his cheer. Gisbo just stared at Falcon, shaking his head.
“I just don’t believe this. Someone hit me! This must be a . . .” WHACK! Falcon did exactly as Gisbo commanded. Gisbo sat on the ground rubbing his very sore head and shouting his usual curses when he noticed that Falcon’s hands were completely healed.
“Wait! How the hell did you even hit me just now? Your hands, they were . . .” Gisbo trailed off.
“In simple terms, my wounds pretty much melted away. An elementary healing technique did the trick. I employed it while we were walking. Just now finished its effect, actually, perfect timing! Especially considering how you requested that I hit you and . . .�
�� Falcon got no farther before being interrupted.
“All right! All right! I get it, but seriously, just give me a minute to wrap my head around all this. Ok, there I was fighting Thomson, I . . . I nearly got my ass handed to me. If that guy Rolce didn’t hop in and . . . oh no . . . Rolce! That kid took a major beating for me and I had only just met the guy! I hope he’s all right,” Gisbo said, true concern to his tone.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? Look behind you. He’s arrived right on schedule,” said Falcon, as he pointed to the left side of the castle walls. There, walking quite normally, was Rolce. He trotted toward them with a big grin and a wave.
“Rolce! How did you . . . you're healed too? How are you even walking? THE HELL IS GOING ON!?” Gisbo yelled as he grabbed his throbbing head in frustration. Rolce didn’t answer Gisbo. Instead, he walked straight toward Falcon, a finger pointed at him.
“You! How did you do that? I heard a voice in my head tell me to follow you! One minute my leg is broken and the next it’s . . .” Rolce stammered, and then, like Gisbo before him, stared at Falcon in a dreamy shock. Finally, Falcon crossed his arms and sighed deeply.
