The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four

by Daniel Lawlis

  Instead he had to think as he flew, and he did not share Righty’s love of thinking while moving. He preferred serious thought to take place while he was alone and still, unbothered by any external stimuli. Additionally, he had to face the dilemma of whether to invite a select few or all of them.

  Then, he saw them.

  It seemed to Harold that perhaps everything that had ensued since his violent interaction with Max had all been but a dream, for he found the konulans just as he had found them the last time. They were in the same general vicinity and once again had found some cause for celebration, given that they were flying about vigorously in swooping circles and throwing worms into the air and catching them.

  “ATTENTION!!!” Harold bellowed out, as he arrived in their midst.

  One of them fell to the ground unconscious with terror. The others retreated to nearby branches, not daring a full retreat however.

  “There is no need to be alarmed. On the contrary, I come not as your judge this time but as the bearer of excellent news. After prodigious investigation, I have verified that the conspiracy was limited to Max alone. Thus, your exile has been ended, and you have once again been granted the privilege of protecting Master.”

  There was not a sound, but it was clear by the rapid glances exchanged throughout the multitude of roughly two hundred that they weren’t sure they wanted the exile ended.

  “But there is still more good news. Master has undergone both an intense moral and physical rejuvenation since you saw him last. You will not recognize him. He has discovered love, that antidote to the darkest hatred and vice that can plague a man’s heart. And it has changed him. He lives now for his wife and his baby on the way.”

  The glances between the konulans now seemed much more positive. Love was something they could most certainly understand and relate to, and the thought of a baby on the way melted their hearts still further.

  “He no longer goes by the name Master, so thorough has his transformation been. As part of his rejuvenation, he had to sacrifice all of his memory. He has no knowledge of the war against Sodorf. He has no memory of you. He has adopted a humble name, Richard Franklin Simmers, and asks only that you address him as Mr. Simmers. When I informed him he had servants, he considered freeing you from all future obligations towards him, but alas, his wish to live a simple life conducting honest business and providing for his family is being threatened by an army of evildoers who would kill his wife herself, for they fear his strength. Yea, they would even slay his unborn child!”

  A gasp could be heard amidst all the konulans at this outrage.

  “My job—in fact, my life’s mission—is to protect Mr. Simmers and his family, but I cannot be everywhere at once. Mr. Simmers faces villains of the most perfidious sort who, jealous of his hard work and industry, regularly seek to dispossess him of his property or even attack his person. It is for those situations that I am most suited, but he needs you to look after his wife and unborn child day and night so that you can alert me rapidly to any sign of danger. I hope that goodness and decency alone will convince you to perform this noble mission with every ounce of strength and dedication you can muster, but so dire is Mr. Simmers’ concern for his family’s safety that he would begrudgingly permit me to use more-forceful methods to persuade those unswayed by charity to safeguard his family. Will you refuse him this small service?”

  “We’ll help! We’ll protect his wife!” These and other joyous affirmations quickly rang out, and Harold smiled inwardly, although he realized that he himself believed much of what he had said about Righty, even though he had not known so until then.

  “He is unprotected as we speak! Follow me!” Harold exclaimed. And at that he began flying east. A mile or two later, he looked over his shoulder, and it did not appear that even a single konulan had remained behind. Like a swarm of bees, they flew swiftly in close formation. Harold wished more than ever for sleep, but he squashed that sentiment and flew on.

  Chapter 33

  Righty woke up at around 11 a.m. and got out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a man stepping out of his jail cell to be led to the market to be publicly drawn and quartered. When he gave Janie a hug that lasted around ten minutes, she knew something was wrong and demanded he tell her.

  “I’ve got a meeting today with a potential seller for the store I’m going to set up in Sivingdel. It’s got the best location of any places I’ve looked at so far, but the guy’s shady, and I’m just not looking forward to dealing with him. Also, crime’s been on the rise in Sivingdel, and the whole thing’s been making me nervous. I just want you to know, babe, that if anything ever happens to me, I love you more than you can imagine, even though I’m really rotten at showing it. I just want to make something of myself so that you can be proud of me and so that baby of ours will grow up to be proud of me. I won’t be able to tell him or her to follow their dreams if I’ve never made anything of myself . . . if I haven’t faced life’s meanest challenges.”

  Janie looked at him with wet eyes.

  “I love you too, Righty,” a nickname she rarely used with him, and did so only when she was feeling playful. “Just use one of your boxing moves if he gives you any headache,” she said, throwing a playful jab in his direction.

  “I will, babe. I most certainly will,” Righty responded truthfully, glad that his metaphorical account of his anxiety had afforded him the opportunity to leave his wife with at least one entirely truthful statement. To it, he added another: “You’re the love of my life, Janie.” And then he hugged her tightly and passionately, prompting her moist eyes to turn into productive rain clouds, from which her cheeks were soon sprinkled.

  And then Righty set off. He knew that if he spent another second there, he’d never leave. And he had a job to do today. Unpleasant it was. But it was nonetheless.

  Chapter 34

  Righty got to the junkyard at around 5 p.m. He found a huge tumult gathered. It reminded him of a crowd gathering to watch an execution. Then, he realized that perception may have been more of an indicator of his current state of mind than of objective reality, for the same looks on their faces might also be found on those of a group of fans awaiting their pugilist hero.

  He summoned Tats, Crabs, Chalky, and a few others that he had grown acquainted with as of late and then began speaking with them privately. “Have you evacuated all the women, children, and the elderly?”

  They nodded their heads.

  “Good. I want to be frank with every one of you. Sam wouldn’t have picked this option unless he thought he had a really good chance of winning. He surely knows by now that I know how to use my hands, so I’m not sure what to expect, but I guess it doesn’t really matter, because it’s all going down in about an hour.”

  “Sam’s got a reputation for being big. They say he must be one of the strongest men that ever lived, but then again that could just be street talk,” Chalky said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Well, here’s what I want you to know. If it’s a clean fight—and by that I mean Sam doesn’t suddenly pull out a weapon all of a sudden after telling me it’s going to be a hand-to-hand contest or have some of his goons jump in unexpectedly—then I don’t want you jumping in under any circumstances. Any.” The somber faces of Righty’s audience informed him that they knew he was talking about even a fatal beating.

  “To Sam’s credit, he gave me the option of just never showing up again. Hell, he even gave me the option of keeping you guys as a crew but paying a tax. I chose to fight him, and I have to live with the consequences of that.”

  Tats and the others saw all of this as a rather gloomy speech, and their faces showed it.

  “Sam’s full gang outnumbers us so badly that if they make an all-out attack I don’t want you to stand and fight. We don’t have the numbers for that. Run like hell, and live to fight another day. There’s no shame in that when you’re outnumbered like we are. Have you posted lookouts around the junkyard in case Sam tries to encircle us with his men?”


  “It’s all squared away,” Tats said.

  “Good. Then, we should know if Sam tries an all-out invasion of this place and have time to get the hell out of here. Tell the men that if that happens they should run out of the junkyard and towards the city. The more public the location, the less likely it will be that Sam will try an all-out massacre.”

  Tats and the other young men nodded.

  “One last thing,” Righty began and then gulped, “in case I don’t make it, I hereby appoint Tats as my successor. You go with whatever he decides. If he decides to fight Sam, do it. If he decides it would be in your best interests to join Sam, well, then do it. Are we clear?”

  They all nodded their heads but said nothing. It was clear Righty had brought their morale to the floor with his all-too candid words.

  “Hey, I’m not dead yet!” he said grinning, which lightened their long looks a tad, but it was all the humor Righty could muster. He had a bad feeling about this engagement, and the fact his potentially violent death would occur in front of the men whose admiration and confidence he had earned at great cost made it all the worse. He asked to be left alone until Sam arrived, and he went away and sat by himself.

  About forty minute later, 5:55 p.m. to be precise, a voice shouted out from on top of one of the junkyard heaps.

  “Men on the way!!”

  Righty stood up and readied himself. He was so nervous he could puke, but he had already done that exactly eleven times on the way up from Ringsetter, and he was certain that by now he didn’t even have any stomach acid left to offer the dry ground below his boots.

  He saw what looked like a dozen men coming towards the junkyard meeting location, and as they drew nearer he saw there were precisely thirteen: one in front and a solid line of twelve behind.

  He was about to meet Sam.

  Sam’s profile betrayed little even as he came very close, since he was wearing a very large leather coat that extended to his knees, in spite of the day being cool at best. He saw that each of his bodyguards was wearing a sword conspicuously on his hip. Righty found himself wondering briefly how they managed to do that without drawing significant police attention but realized he could contemplate such peripheral matters at another time, if he survived this encounter.

  By now, he could see Sam’s face clearly enough to notice one thing: He was smiling. He had the smirk of a conqueror looking at his already vanquished victim with a kind of curious amusement as to why the unworthy adversary dared gaze upon him rather than making a hasty retreat.

  For a moment, Righty considered it. There was something in the man’s eyes far more savage than he had ever seen before, and he had found through experience that a man’s eyes revealed a lot about his ability to fight. But the haughtiness in his eyes brought to his mind a certain memory. A hardware store, a lowly clerk approached by a wealthy man’s servant inquiring about the availability of then-legal Smokeless Green:

  “Ask him how much it will be,” the lofty, wealthy man had asked. That wealthy man was Oscar Peters, speaking of Righty in the third person without even naming him. Without even NAMING him!! The man who was far his superior in the ring but whose career had fallen prey to a combination of an injury followed by an understandable response (i.e., a bite) to Oscar’s illegal act of punching him even after the referee was stepping between them to break them apart due to Righty’s wrist having snapped.

  “Yo, I came here to fight some guy named Brass! Is he here, or ain’t he?!”

  Righty had felt momentarily emboldened by the hatred and anger produced by the horrid humiliation he had suffered from his inferior rival, but his embarrassment at having practically blanked out didn’t do much to help his confidence. So he summoned the memory back before answering.

  “He’s here,” Righty said calmly. Righty couldn’t help but notice a look of relief on the junkyard gang’s face, as if they had been fearing Sam would begin picking a substitute opponent promptly if the intended target did not reveal himself, sort of like a teacher calling on a random student after no one volunteered.

  “Hahahahaaha,” Sam said, laughing. Its genuineness unnerved Righty. Artificial laughter would have emboldened him.

  “You?!!!”

  Sam’s bodyguards smirked.

  “Naw, it can’t be you! Can’t be you!” he said wagging his finger like a schoolmaster correcting a silly answer from a student.

  “I sent twenty guys down an alley after Brass, and they got cuts to pieces. So I says to myself: ‘This is an okay guy. I mean, I’m gonna kill ‘em, but he’s an okay guy.’” Sam’s bodyguards smirked wider. “But you?! I mean, I thought I made this trip for a real killer!”

  Righty tore off his shirt. Hidden beneath the loose-fitting shirt, but now on full display, was a physique worthy of study by any artist seeking to carve a warrior statue. Two hundred and forty pounds of chiseled muscle spread across six feet and three inches gave a far better answer to Sam’s insults than even the most warlike quip could have ever hoped to.

  But that was not all. Now staring at Sam were not the uncertain eyes that had been idling about moments before. Two black, icy beads, looking like droplets from a hailstorm in hell, now looked at Sam—or rather, through him—and gave him a chill that went down to his feet.

  Sam responded by taking his own shirt off. It was fortunate for Righty that he had already entered combat mode. It was a gift he had acquired after about two to three years of boxing. Before he reached that point, his eyes could be shifty and listless, revealing emotions of vulnerability best left hidden, but once he reached his state of psychological preparation, he was unshakable, and his eyes revealed the unshakable determination in his heart.

  Had it not been so, he might have been tempted to run. Standing before him now was the most freakish man he had ever seen. Pecs the size of dinner plates. Shoulders the size of small boulders. A head that sat perched upon a mountain of muscle, looking like its neck had been hammered down deep within the body like a nail into a coffin. Abdominal muscles that looked like a mountain range viewed from above.

  Sam’s background could not be more different than Righty’s. Whereas Righty had been introduced to the sweet science of boxing and trained rigorously in all technical aspects of offense and defense, and had only later added his unique blend of savagery to that scientific bedrock through countless bare-knuckle competitions, and had then merged savagery and technical prowess into a perfect matrimony through hundreds of barroom brawls, Sam’s training lay entirely in the realm of savagery.

  Sam Belvur was the youngest of six rowdy boys, and in the Belvur home, Mr. Belvur’s favorite refrain was, “No Belvur’s a sissy.” Mr. Belvur worked at a local mine and spent six nights a week at the bar, but Sunday was special. No, he didn’t take his kids to the nearby temple to pay their respects to the village deity. But he did send his wife there while he “toughened up the young ‘uns.” He would then pit the little devils against each other—not that they had refrained from doing so all week long just because he was busy. Participatory privileges were acquired at age eight, and from that fateful eighth birthday onward, no ailment was grounds for excusal.

  Mr. Belvur would have bare-knuckle matches between the boys, and by the time a few hours went by, each and every one of them had swollen eyes, bloody noses, split lips, bruised knuckles, and aching ribs. The winner would then go a round or two with Mr. Belvur himself. Sam had dreaded Sundays until about age sixteen, but by then the stocky Sam was becoming a real handful. He had developed a solid chin, quick hand movements, bulky back muscles, and a wide-eyed ferocity that unnerved even Mr. Belvur himself.

  By the time Sam was twenty, he had acquired a lot of the muscle currently levelled at Righty, and there was not a brother in the family who would box with him. Mr. Belvur himself often invented excuses, and after he had his head fatally split open one night by a steel club over a game of dice at the bar, he never had to make another one.

  Sam was now in his early thirties, and had put about f
orty pounds of muscle on over the last year, thanks to his previously described usage of triple the maximum safe dose of various muscle-building herbs.

  Although Righty’s eyes still contained their same icy expression, internally he was cognizant of the fact this was going to be a different kind of fight. Overwhelming this guy with body blows did not seem like a very realistic strategy. He realized he would have to revert to a more technical approach and hope his opponent could not match him at that level but would instead wear himself out.

  Righty moved towards this beast cautiously. Hands up, protecting his chin. Elbows close, guarding his ribs. Left foot in front, slightly turned, ready to permit horizontal movements. And right foot pointed straight forward, well disposed for any sudden lunge he should find opportune.

  Sam was the polar opposite of this textbook boxing posture. He charged towards Righty wildly, throwing a massive haymaker that probably would have decapitated him had it connected. Righty ducked underneath it crisply, and punished Sam with a snappy left hook to the jaw. Righty was unnerved by the minimal effect it had, for while it was snappy and efficient, it would have dropped the average man and elicited a notable response from most.