by J. C. Fiske
“I always knew you to be dumb, boy, but deaf, too? Come with me, we have . . .” Lamik started when Knob, with a speed he himself didn’t believe, spun around and struck Lamik right across the chin, sending the proud Chieftain straight to the punishing granite floor.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Knob stood over him, breathing hard, went to say something, but couldn’t muster a syllable. A single tear fell down his face as he quickly walked the other way, hopped off the arena floor, and sprinted out of the stadium and out of Heaven’s Shelter to a destination unknown.
Chapter Twenty Six: The Name in the Desert
“Cripes, that’s loud,” Gisbo said, as he sat up, his head ringing with explosive cheering. He lifted himself up from the bench he was draped over to see Falcon sitting morosely, his hands folded and his eyes closed.
“What’d I miss?” Gisbo asked. Falcon looked up at him. Falcon started to answer, but he noticed the rest of the team looking at Gisbo. Falcon searched all their gazes, trying to find the words, anything to describe what just happened to Foxblade, to Knob, but in the end, he didn’t need to. Shaved made his way over with a smile on his face and sat down beside Gisbo.
“You just missed some Strife guy punch out Chieftain Lamik!” Shaved said with a grin. Gisbo’s face exploded with a smile.
“What? No way! Gah! Why the hell did I go all out like that? Damn it! I would have done anything to see that! And . . . jeesh, why’s everyone so glum?” Gisbo asked, looking around as people paced, arms folded, shuffling their feet.
“Um, well,” Shaved started.
“They’re focused, Gisbo, as you should be,” Perry said, arms folded in front of him, not turning around.
“Right, sorry. So, who’s up?” Gisbo asked as he raised his hands and stretched with an obnoxious groan and yawn.
“I just won the die roll. It’s their turn to present their fighter. We’re on the final match,” Perry said with his back to Gisbo, who looked up at the scoreboard to see the Strifes with one, and the Renegades with two.
“Final match? Already? That bastard Foxblade finished his match, I see. He couldn’t even stay and support the team? What a bum,” Gisbo said.
No one said anything, nobody even looked at him. Gisbo felt his stomach churn.
“Guys . . . where’s, where’s Foxblade?” Gisbo stammered, feeling his chest heave and becoming light-headed, his dread turning into all-out panic.
“Focus, Gisbo. If the Strifes win this match, they tie our wins, and all our work will come out to a series of our best die rolls,” Perry said. Gisbo leapt to his feet and ran to Perry, only to see his eyes red with tears, tears in the eyes of the biggest hard ass Gisbo had ever known.
“Perry . . .” Gisbo muttered. He looked all about at his teammates. Nobody met his gaze until Falcon stood up. With fresh tears in his blue eyes, he spun Gisbo around to face him.
“Gisbo . . . Foxblade is no longer with us,” Falcon said, the words falling out of his mouth.
“He’s, he’s . . . gone?” Gisbo asked, feeling his heart pound like a hammer against his chest, his hands shaking. His face went from white to red with rage.
“Who? WHO DID IT? WHO!?” Gisbo screamed. “I’ll kill him!”
“No, son. It is not your battle to fight. It is Jackobi’s . . .” Falcon said. “There will be time to grieve, time for avenging, but that time is not now. There is one more match, and we must give support. We cannot allow all our hard work and Foxblade’s sacrifice to come down to a series of die rolls.”
Gisbo froze, shaking with rage.
“Be still, son,” Falcon said.
“Nobody can beat Foxblade, nobody, this . . . what the hell?” Gisbo asked, bursting into tears.
Team Strife presented their fighter, but he did not come up to the stage alone. Instead, he was accompanied by two large Strifes. Chained and shackled, with a steel mask without eyeholes, the fighter was tall, had an average build, and had long, mangled, crusted hair that grew all the way down past his knees and hung over the front and back of his shoulders like a decrepit cape. His skin was bleach white, as if he hadn’t seen sun in centuries, and his tattered clothes looked as if he they were just pulled from a manure pile.
“Mother of . . .” Falcon started, shocked.
“Who the hell is that?” Gisbo asked.
As if hearing Gisbo’s question, the man’s head snapped up towards Gisbo. Gisbo didn’t quite know how to put it, but he felt the man’s gaze upon him like a cold chill on a winter morning. Rake’s words from last year repeated in his mind.
A killer recognizes a killer. Gisbo shuddered.
“Perry . . .” Falcon said.
“I know,” Perry said. “Jag Davison. Join me by my side.”
“It’s Shaved, sir,” Shaved said as he joined Perry.
“Of course it is,” Perry said. He pulled Shaved aside. “We’ve discussed it all in deep length, son. You are the only one at the present with the skills and calm collective to face this . . . let alone our last remaining fighter to force a win.”
“Face what?” Shaved asked, looking out at the man.
“Perry! I cannot allow this!” Falcon said, stepping forward. “I will face him! I NEED to face him!”
“And what then? Break the rules? Encourage the Strifes to do the same? We can’t have it, Falcon! This is the reason for this tournament!” Perry said.
Falcon stood, shaking. Perry walked forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know how personal this is for you. I realize this is unexpected, what with the Strifes throwing the darkest depths of Glaknabrade right at us. But we, you, must rise above this. Think of the big picture. Right now, Shaved is the best option we have.”
Falcon didn’t say a word, only turned and walked back to the bench, his head lowered, foot tapping furiously. Perry turned to Shaved.
“We’ve calculated everything. This is not a fight in traditional terms. This is a quickdraw, and you are the quickest one of all of us. All that tinkering in the shop has made your wrists strong, flexible, and deadly for this moment, son, and you won’t disappoint us,” Perry said. “You don’t need to know about this man. Just know that when you kill him, the world will be a better place. Understood?”
“Absolutely. I’m not afraid,” Shaved said, utter confidence in his voice. Perry smiled.
“Of course you’re not. Go, get out there. You are one of my greatest students, Shaved, smart as you are deadly, skilled as you are patient, and above all, compassionate as you are strong. Only you can fight this man, as you have risen above his mindset.”
“I’m ready,” Shaved said.
“Shaved,” Gisbo said, appearing behind him. Shaved looked at his friend and his extended hand. Shaved grasped it and Gisbo pumped it hard.
“Murder this guy,” Gisbo said.
“You got it, pal,” Shaved said as he turned and made his way out to the arena to face off against his opponent.
“Perry,” Gisbo said, walking up beside him. “Are you sure he’s . . .”
“I meant every word of what I said. Even if it’s the last thing I say to that boy, I’ll take it to my grave,” Perry said. Gisbo turned and looked at his father in an utter state of disarray. Gisbo walked over and sat down next to him.
“Dad? Who is he?” Gisbo asked, but Falcon only stared forward, eyes not blinking, foot tapping furiously. “Dad?” Gisbo asked again.
“Foxblade wasn’t the only one with a skeleton in his closet,” Falcon said.
“Who is he?” Gisbo asked again.
“Vice Dastard,” Falcon said, now rocking back and forth, unable to sit still, red blemishes splotching his neck from compressed rage.
“Where have I heard that name? I . . . Dad? Are you all right?” Gisbo asked.
“No, son, I’m not. It’s taking all my self-control to not fling myself from this bench, disregard everyone, and cleave his head off,” Falcon said.
“Dad . . .” Gisbo stammered. Shax appeared behind them.
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“Falcon, you need to come with us. Narroway’s orders,” Shax said, Falcon spun on him, then turned and saw Narroway looking his way with a heavy gaze. Falcon looked as if he were about to pounce on Shax, but instead took a large, deep breath and stood up.
“I need to get out of here; Narroway’s right. There’s more at stake than my vendetta. Come on,” Falcon said.
“I’m sorry, friend, I really am. Come on, let’s go get some food and get your mind off of it,” Shax said.
“Dad, wait! Who is he? Who is Vice Dastard,” Gisbo asked. Falcon stopped and looked at the man in the ring.
“Son, I want to tell you, but I . . .” Falcon said.
“Then tell me!” Gisbo said. Falcon stared at his son, thought about the Sybils’ visions, and weighed it hard, put himself in his son’s shoes, and spoke the words that would or wouldn’t set that vision into motion.
“He’s the reason for all you feel, all your anger, all your misery. He’s,” Falcon started. His eyes closed and he fell into Shax’s arms. Gisbo saw the Rascalsnare on the side of Falcon’s earlobe.
“Shax! What, what the hell?” Gisbo yelled.
“Sorry, son, orders are orders,” Shax said as he carried Falcon away. Gisbo watched them leave, was about to follow, then heard the word, “BEGIN!” from Narroway.
“Damn it,” Gisbo mouthed. No way was he going to leave Shaved alone. He rushed back to the fight and stood beside Rake.
“What do you know about this guy? Vice Dastard?” Gisbo asked.
“I’m surprised you don’t know,” Rake said.
“I feel him, Rake,” Gisbo said.
“A killer recognizes a killer,” Rake said. “So you believe me now?”
“Who the hell is he, Rake!?” Gisbo asked.
“Nina’s father,” Rake said. Gisbo’s eyes went wide.
Finally, it all clicked. The name dropped last year when Nina was talking to Foxblade, that strange voice within his mind, the one spoken in the desert . . .
Shaved stood, dual daggers at the ready, as the man behind the steel mask stood, arms folded behind his back at ease, a state of utter stillness and calm.
No weapons on him whatsoever. Why? Shaved wondered. He thought about how the two large men who accompanied him didn’t just walk away from this prisoner once the match began. They ran, as if their lives depended on it. He couldn’t underestimate this man, but no way could he allow him to just stand still a moment longer.
In a burst of speed, Shaved drew his dual daggers, ignited his yellow Soarian essence, and disengaged the friction of air around them, thrusting out an energy field that surrounded them both, invisible to every eye but his own. Now his daggers could pass through the air without any hindrance. Shaved’s weapons didn’t just fly forward. They were out of his hands and in front of Vice Dastard in under a blink, each one ready to slice open a jugular vein. Shaved’s aim was true, but what happened next, Shaved couldn’t have prepared for.
His weapons suddenly spiraled downward and hit the granite hard, sparking and bouncing about. In a quick maneuver, Shaved yanked his daggers back to him, spun them around, and shot them forward at the man who now, unbelievably, was walking toward Shaved as if he were in a park, enjoying the beautiful day. Again, Shaved’s weapons were misdirected and hit the floor.
What the hell is going on? Shaved thought. His eyes were trained to perfection, and even now, he saw no energy fields surrounding Vice. In fact, Vice’s essence wasn’t even powered up, but no matter what Shaved did, his daggers could not land a hit.
The crowd didn’t make a sound. Neither did Gisbo as they watched the man, now unchained, wearing a steel mask walk toward Shaved. Each time Shaved shot a dagger, it flew on track, then was misdirected back down toward the floor.
“What the hell is going on? I don’t even feel his essence. There’s no pressure to him at all!” Gisbo said. “Rake?”
Rake stood, transfixed, looking at the man as he moved closer and closer to Shaved like a predator closing in for a kill.
“Shaved! Get out of there! Something’s not right about this guy!” Gisbo yelled.
You don’t think I know that, Gisbo? Shaved thought. The man would soon close the distance between them. He was three paces away, far too close for Shaved to throw effectively, so he sought the alternative. He crossed his daggers together in an X-formation, powered up his essence, everything he had, and let it all out with a yell.
There was so much backlash from Shaved’s blast that he fell backward and nearly toppled out of the ring. Now on his stomach, Shaved watched his yellow energy fly at his target and freeze midair, vibrating, as if being held back. A feeling of dread filled Shaved as his vision began fading in and out from the mass of essence leaving his body.
“Come on, kill him! End this!” Shaved pleaded. Then he noticed his essence moving again, pushing his opponent backward. The big yellow X, his signature move, hummed and vibrated, hurting the ears of everyone within earshot, when, to his horror, he realized the X was bending upward. A moment later, the X flew up into the air and flew well out of the arena, hitting a large tree and eradicating it, literally erasing it from existence in a yellow flash. Shaved looked forward to see the man standing at ease once more, his arms chained behind his back, unphased at the blast Shaved had conjured with his entire being.
“Freakin’ A,” Shaved muttered.
“SHAVED!” Gisbo yelled.
Shaved did all he could to rise onto wobbly, shaky knees as the man continued his slow walk toward him, seemingly savoring every step.
“He can’t even stand. Shaved! Get out of there! It’s not worth you dying!” Gisbo screamed.
Shaved took one look back at Gisbo and smiled, then, with a yell, turned and ran toward his opponent, essence-less daggers raised. He pushed his spent body forward by pure will alone. Just before striking, Shaved ducked forward. In a wild dive, Shaved rolled behind Vice, righted himself, and went to drive both of his daggers into the man’s kidneys, but was halted.
Shaved’s whole body froze, the tips of his daggers only an inch away from their targets.
I can’t move . . . Shaved thought.
There was a snapping sound as Vice Dastard broke free of his chains, spun, and snapped his arm forward, grabbing Shaved by the neck, hoisting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing. Desperate, Shaved dropped his daggers and raised his hands to try to pry the iron-like grip from around his neck. He tried everything, anything to get the first cut and win the match as he kicked out with both feet, flailed his arms until he was spent, and hung there like a rag doll.
Vice Dastard raised a single finger, hovered it above the weak spot where the bridge of his nose met his forehead, and plunged his finger through, delving it deep into his brain. Instantly, Shaved’s neck lolled to one side, and his arms draped to one side . . .
Dead.
Gisbo stood, frozen, as Vice Dastard pulled his finger free, pulling gray matter and blood behind it, then cocked his head in Gisbo’s direction and tossed Shaved’s lifeless form toward Gisbo.
Diving, Gisbo caught his deceased friend, his face frozen, blood dripping out from between his eyes. Gisbo began to hyperventilate, flashes of him and Grandfield meeting for the first time, all the hours spent working at Dave and Ern’s shop together, all the time spent learning how to skeet, playing hockey, the battle for Flaria, everything flashed over him within a second.
Gisbo didn’t recall what happened next. Only that he suddenly felt the arms of his entire team push him down, rip free his rings and weapons, and hold him back. Still, the man only looked down on him. The two bear-like guards clasped the chains back on the man and hauled him away. Gisbo screamed like a wild animal, cursing and clawing until they were forced to knock him out, just as they did his father, not out of necessity, but out of mercy.
“Have you heard from Jackobi?” Falcon asked. Moordin looked up from his now cold cup of coffee.
“Yes, only to inform me he didn’t want a public funeral for his
father,” Moordin said, taking one sip of the stale fluid and swallowing it with a grimace.
“I only ask as I’ve been incapacitated for the past day,” Falcon said.
“Can you blame us? You were ready to kill him. You would have killed him, no matter the result of the fight,” Moordin said.
“I don’t blame you,” Falcon said.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Moordin asked.
“No,” Falcon said. He looked over at Gisbo a few tables down from them, sitting with Kennis, their hands intertwined. “But it’s not me I’m worried about.”
“It’s a lot to take in, but he’ll get through it, just as we have,” Moordin said as he dumped his coffee over the cobblestoned street.
“He’s different, younger than we were. To see such tragedy so . . . quickly. In just one hour, he’s lost a mentor and a friend, and that’s not counting what we are hiding from him,” Falcon said.
“And you were ready to tell him,” Moordin said.
“Can you blame me? All he will do is resent me if I don’t,” Falcon said. “For the first time in my life, Moordin, I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of what will happen to Gisbo without me here.”
“Falcon . . .” Moordin started.
“I don’t know, Moordin. There’s a rupture in my boy, a deep, festering one, and it’s my job to fix it,” Falcon said.
“You’re a father, not a mechanic,” Moordin said.
Falcon didn’t reply.
“I wouldn’t worry about that rupture of his. If I remember right, you had one of your own and you turned out just fine. So will Gisbo. Do you know why?” Moordin asked.
Falcon looked at him with a curious glance.
“Her,” Moordin said, cocking his neck over in Kennis’s direction. “Just as Nora’s love cured you, Kennis will cure Gisbo and teach him things you never could.”
“I pray you’re right,” Falcon said.
“I always am,” Moordin said. Gisbo got up from his table, wandered over, and sat across from them.
