Rise of the Retics

by T J Lantz

  It was at that point that the cacophony of the morning market was overshadowed by three distinct sounds: Elmira’s terrified, panicky shriek of “my pears, my innocent pears,” the dwarf’s cries of pain when his bottom was turned into a pin cushion by the formerly innocent looking fruit basket, and Rigby’s deep excited bark that she let out whenever she was enjoying one of the “games” Jaxon had taught her.

  It was the perfect distraction. As all eyes went to the triad of noisemakers, Jaxon knew that there wouldn’t be a soul looking at him for a few seconds. As he slowly strolled toward the chaotic scene, he darted his hand twice into a bushel of plump oranges, grabbing two beautiful specimens he had already eyed up. Before anyone knew he was even there, his hand had shot back into his side satchel, dropping his prizes into the bag for later claim. Too easy, he thought as he put a smile on his face and continued at a leisurely pace past Elmira.

  As Jaxon grabbed Rigby, gently pulling her away from the dwarf, whom she had begun licking incessantly on the face as he tried to stand up, he gave everyone a big smile and a less than sincere apology. Elmira’s only reaction was a slow rotation of her head from left to right, as she followed each step Jaxon took past her stand, waiting for him to leave her area. Jaxon walked a little slower, as he fought to stifle his laughter, just to add a bit more to her annoyance.

  He could hear the dwarf, derriere still overflowing the pear bushel, mutter something about a “dirty mutt.” He was going to turn and say something to defend his dog’s honor, but when he looked around he noticed the dwarf wasn’t talking about Rigby, he was looking straight at him. Jaxon was the target of the insult. Jaxon was the mutt.

  He could feel himself starting to get angry, but he decided he wasn’t going to let some old prickly bottomed moron ruin his breakfast, so he took a deep breath, turned, and continued on his way. He would just remember his face for later. Revenge would be just as sweet as the orange.

  “Bah! Not even a challenge anymore, Rigs,” Jaxon said to his partner in crime as they turned the corner. He could hear the sounds of Elmira profusely apologizing to either her customer or her fruit fading into the background. Rigby trotted alongside with a panting smile plastered to her face.

  There was nothing Jaxon loved more than the reaction the townsfolk gave him as he went for his little strolls through the city. As several sets of eyes showed their silent disdain for him, he casually ran his bright, red-skinned fingers through his hair. Jaxon adored his hair, which was a striking combination of deep ebony and ash colored streaks. To the casual observer he looked like a small boy who had just been pulled from the fires of an active volcano—his skin seared a fiery molten red. However, a more careful examination revealed two triangular ivory horns protruding like sharpened spikes from his forehead, a constant reminder to all around him of the blood he carried within him. Blood of the Underworld, thought Jaxon with pride. His long red tail darted up behind his head, its sharp spade tip glinting in the morning sunshine.

  Jaxon had lived in Rosehaven since he was little more than a year old. He knew very little of his background from before then. What he could piece together mostly came from stories his various foster guardians had told him.

  He knew that his father was a pureblood demon, and his mother a human, and that somehow he had survived birth and infancy in the Underworld, a feat no other mixed-blooded child had ever managed to do. Most non-pure children born in the Underworld were immediately cast into a volcanic river. At least, this was what one of his foster mothers said should have happened to him, right after he “accidentally” put three live snakes in her bed. He didn’t understand what she was so upset about, not a single one of them was poisonous.

  He knew little else of his background, neither how his parents had met, nor where they were now. In truth, he had no memory of either of them, and they had never visited or written in the years since he had arrived on the island.

  Jaxon assumed his father had far more important things to do, what with being a powerful demon and all. He didn’t care what his mother’s reasons were—he certainly didn’t want to meet the filthy human anyway. If he ever did have the opportunity, he figured he would have to kill her just to get back at her for trying to sabotage his genes.

  Most other retics mistrusted his demonic features, knowing that the evil nature of beings from the Underworld was difficult to overcome. That didn’t bother Jaxon so much, though. A little bit of mistrust and fear was definitely something he could work with.

  What truly made life irritating for Jaxon, however, were his human traits. Most creatures from the Underworld had bright, flame-wreathed eyes, yet his were a brilliant blue, more akin to the calm sky above the island than the fiery pits below it. His skin was also a big give away that Jaxon was half-human. Demonic creatures’ skin had a tough leathery feel, much like a snake, with bony plates throughout their body for maximum protection. Jaxon’s skin was far softer, more likely to be confused with a newborn elf’s bottom than with any type of reptile. These were the traits that really betrayed him, as no species was more hated in Rosehaven than the humans. In most of the city, the word human was right up there with the most vulgar profanity any species had ever developed.[5]

  Due to his looks, Jaxon realized at a very young age that he would never completely fit in while living on the island of Rosehaven, or possibly anywhere else in the world for that matter. It was why the other children refused to play with him, why the townsfolk grabbed their change purses as he went by, and, of course, why foster families dropped him faster than an angry skunk.[6] No one actually cared about who Jaxon was—they only saw what he was, an abomination of traits from species that have long tried to eradicate or enslave everyone else on the planet.

  After a few years of being treated like dirt, Jaxon noticed it was a lot easier, and certainly a lot more fun, to start acting in the way everyone expected you to. What was the point of trying so hard to be a good boy anyway?

  Rigby whimpered for her breakfast, snapping Jaxon from his thoughts. Patience was not her strong suit.

  “Oh, stop it, Rigby. You already ate back at the house!” The mottled young dog tilted her head to the side and stared at her horned master, unwilling to give up the request so quickly.

  “Oh, fine,” Jaxon replied after a few moments of trying to fight off his dog’s begging. “Take the fruits of my hard labor. Get it Rigs? Fruits of my labor?” Jaxon chuckled, again entertaining himself with his own jokes.

  He reached into his brown leather side satchel and pulled out one of the oranges. He peeled it, throwing the rind to the floor as he walked, tore it in half, and threw Rigby’s share down to her. She snatched it from the air, chewed once, and swallowed in a single fluid motion. Her large, bright pink tongue darted out to clean the juice from her jaw. The first thing Jaxon had learned about his dog was that as long as her target was edible, Rigby never missed a toss.

  Having Rigby around helped fill the void in Jaxon’s life where most children would have had family and friends. It was also quite nice that she liked to cause trouble as much as he did. Together they were often bringing mischief to the people of Rosehaven, whether it was stealing pies from the bakery or dumping gryphon dung in the well, Jaxon and Rigby relished in each and every misadventure, enjoying both the excitement and each other’s company.

  Today was to be no different. Jaxon had big plans for this morning. He was sure that today was going to be the day that he finally got Saan and William to blow their top. They were always so calm about everything. Nothing he ever did seemed to be able to provoke them. That was just one more thing Jaxon hated about them.

  To make it even worse, Jaxon’s current caretakers, a satyr couple, were important people in the community. Sir William, was one of Rosehaven’s prestigious Roune-Knights, a position of privilege and honor that afforded Jaxon quite a bit of leeway with the trouble he caused.

  His foster mother, Saan Hoofstomp, was a talented musician, who would often perform by the lagoon at the foot o
f the Lord Protector’s tower. Though people would often stop to throw her a coin, she would never allow it. “Music is a gift from the great horned gods,” she would always say, “and no such gift should ever be taxed or sold.” Jaxon firmly believed that she was born missing half her brain.

  Normally in Rosehaven when a foster family was needed, one would be chosen from a community of the same species as the child, so as to help preserve the various different cultures. However, as there were neither any other demons, nor any other humans that lived there, he had always been passed between various people kind-hearted and naïve enough to think they could change him. It amazed him how many retics thought that their love was the only ingredient Nurture needed to hand Nature a stunning defeat.

  As Jaxon bit into his half of the orange, closing his eyes to immerse himself in the flavor that was swishing around his mouth, he didn’t notice the obstacle that had taken root in his path and cast its shadow over him. Rigby stopped and let out a small whimper. Completely oblivious to his surroundings, he strode full speed into the short pillar of muscle in front of him, falling backward onto the cobbled ground.

  “You idiot!” cried Jaxon. “You bruised my tail! Why don’t you watch where you are going?”

  He looked up to see who the clumsy moron was that couldn’t pay attention to what was in front of him. Blinded by the early morning sun beaming down on him, Jaxon used his hand to shield the light from his eyes. Squinting hard, he was able to make out two figures standing above him. The first was a squat creature, almost as wide as it was tall. He wore dark brown leather pants with a matching vest over a plain white linen shirt. His long gray beard was tied into a single braid, held with black leather bindings. In one hand he held a wooden walking stick, decoratively carved and very familiar. On his other side he wore a tiny leather sheath, with the handle of an ornately engraved flintlock pistol sticking out. Jaxon knew right away who had knocked him down and the fact that he was accompanied by a rather plump, green-skinned woman made Jaxon cringe.

  “That’s it right there, Sheriff! That’s my stolen orange!” Elmira gasped pointing at the fruit that was currently rolling away from Jaxon.

  Jaxon let out a long, deep sigh as he slowly shook his head. So much for plans, he thought as the sheriff yanked him to his feet.

  Chapter 3

  All Bark and Some bite

  Reginald

  Lipkos, Poland

  October 25, 1503

  The wind howled overhead, shaking the leaves of the mighty oak trees and showering the ground with a layer of autumn colors. The moonlight was dim, blocked out by unseen clouds signifying an impending storm. A sharp chill permeated the air, heralding the approach of the coming winter. In the middle of it all, hidden among the sanctuary of the forest, a single sharp-toothed smile appeared.

  Such magnificent beauty, thought Sir Reginald Branchworth. As he waited stoically among the trees, listening to the hoots of owls from above and the scuttle of chipmunks below, his thoughts fell to the many long days and nights he had spent waiting in woods just like this one. After a very long and storied military career, Sir Reginald’s patience had become legendary. Fresh, young knights today would tell stories around the tavern tables about the time he waited eleven months in a fruit orchard for a phoenix egg to hatch or of the three years he had posed as a shade tree overlooking the courtyard of King Ferdinand in Castile, listening to every detail of the ruler’s day. When it came to reconnaissance there wasn’t a creature in the world, human or retic, who came close to matching skills with the crafty old knight.

  The memories made Reginald smile. Being the only tree-ent in the service of Rosehaven’s prestigious Roune Knights left him some less than choice assignments. Yet, after almost seven hundred rings[7] of work, he still enjoyed it every single day. It was as he always said, “Nothing makes air smell fresher and birds sound sweeter than freedom.”

  It was for that reason that he dedicated his very long life to making sure all retics, no matter their species, religion, or beliefs, remained safe and free. It was a dangerous job, but then again when you were a retic, so was living.

  Sir Reginald’s life had not always been so lonely and secretive. In the days before the Great War, Reginald had walked openly through the forest of what was then his home, a land called Burgundy. He had enjoyed long discussions with the other tree-ents, he had danced whimsically with dryads long into the evening, and he had most enjoyed his weekly match with the briar gnomes in a game they called chess. Reginald was quite good—strategy had always come naturally to him.

  Despite the fleeting moment of nostalgic joy, Reginald knew those carefree days were long in the past. His tree-ent brothers and sisters were gone now, murdered one by one by human war-bands, until he was all that remained. A society that had been around for millions of years and stretched far and wide across the globe had been completely destroyed within a single generation. He had been little more than a sproutling when the Great War had begun, but now his bark was thick with years and he had fewer leaves growing during each spring, but with that age came a little bit of understanding. These days his fun and enjoyment came knowing that he was protecting lives with his work, and preserving entire cultures from extinction.

  A familiar feeling snapped Reginald back to his senses. He had not seen anyone nor heard a peculiar sound, yet he knew they were coming. The ground told him so. His thick-rooted leg branches could detect vibration long before any of his other senses would warn him to an approaching creature. Reginald peered in the direction of the source, searching through the cover of hundreds of trees to the cleared path his target was sure to take. He knew they would be here. The Lord Protector said they would be, and his sources were almost never wrong.

  As if on cue with his thoughts, four shadowy figures appeared through the cover of the forest. He stared at them with his once eagle sharp eyes until he could make out the approaching targets: three humans, all male, and his target, a young female.

  Two of the men flanked the young girl, each holding one of her thin, stick-like arms and shuffling her through the night.

  Reginald could see her shivering uncontrollably in a combination of cold and fright. Large, slow-moving tears rolled from her puffy, red eyes as unintelligible words flowed off her tongue. The girl’s nearly white hair swirled wistfully around her head, appearing almost as confused as she did. She wore nothing but a simple red woolen bed-dress and a white fur cloak. She had no shoes to protect her feet from scraping on the ground as the soldiers dragged her faster than her gaunt legs could move.

  The image of the crying girl ripped right to the depth of Sir Reginald’s heartwood[8]. The pain and fear in her eyes tore his mind away from his duties as he couldn’t help but vividly remember the day he too had first become a victim of human cruelty.

  Reginald was very young then, just a few seasons past being a sproutling himself and not yet old enough to join the rest of his kin as they marched to war with the human armies. Reginald had been ordered to stay behind and care for the sproutlings and the elders, despite many protests from the eager young ent.

  Things were very quiet in the village as they waited for their soldiers to return with news of a great victory, but as days turned into months, and months turned into years, hope began to fade, until one cold winter’s day when Reginald’s uncle, Thornton Branchworth, returned home. Thornton was a great warrior, and he was the single most powerful creature Reginald had ever known. Reginald had always strongly believed that nothing in the world could hurt his uncle, but as the huge ent hobbled into the village all could see that that belief was far from true. He was injured very badly, burned all over his great maple colored body. Before he took his strained last breath, he was able to inform young Reginald that the ents had indeed lost the battle and the humans were marching their great machines of war straight into the forest. Young though he was, Reginald realized immediately that in using his last days to warn the village, Thornton had also shown the humans exactly where they
were hiding. Doom had been brought straight to their door by the very ent they all relied on to protect them.

  After giving his uncle a proper return to the soil, Reginald did his best to evacuate the village, but all that had been left in his care were sproutlings and those too old to fight or travel. Some of those sproutlings were very young and had yet to even learn to uproot themselves from the soil and walk.

  The human army arrived within hours. They guided huge draft horses pulling large wooden machines filled with burning pitch. Reginald could hear orders being screamed from their battle lines, and within a few seconds the sky was raining fire. Everywhere he looked the village was ablaze with uncontrolled flame. The air filled with smoke and the pained screams of thirty-two terrified, innocent sproutlings. All around him, the elderly fell one by one into heaps of charred bark while the young ents that had already learned to uproot themselves stumbled around frantically. They desperately searched for a place to hide and be safe, but none existed in their world anymore. Sap poured from their tiny eye-slots as fire continued to pour down upon them, indiscriminately turning the forest into a funeral pyre for the entire tree-ent village.

  Reginald fought bravely, deflecting the pitch and arrows away from his much smaller kin as best he could, but it was to little avail. The last image Reginald saw before he passed out from pain was of a tiny sproutling, with only a season’s worth of growth, trying desperately to pull her roots out of the ground and flee as the fire consumed her infant body. She looked at him with eyes that begged for help he could not give.

  “Stop ya’ crying little girl, or else I’m gonna have ta’ sew your big mouth closed. Then we’ll see how much cryin ya’ can do.” The vicious words came from the soldier holding the girl’s left arm, on the far side of the path from Reginald’s hiding spot. His harsh tone toward the young girl snapped the ent back from his horrid memories. The threatening soldier was a little bit taller than his two accomplices and wore a thick brown moustache under a pug nose.