Renegade Rupture

by J. C. Fiske

  “NEKO!” Nora yelled. She took Neko’s essence and merged with him, igniting her Boon form and taking on the appearance of her squirrel companion, even its bushy tail.

  “And how do you suppose that’s going to help you?” Narsissa asked.

  “I think only a quarter of my power is required for the likes of you,” Nora said as she smiled, raised two fingers to her mouth, and sent out a piercing whistle.

  There was silence at first, and then, Narsissa heard countless squeals and squeaks rushing toward them.

  “What, what’s happening?” Narsissa said.

  “It’s simple, my dear Narsissa. That’s the sound of your death,” Nora said. In a massive wave of grey, brown, and other earthy tones, thousands of little critters burst onto the scene, moles, squirrels, chipmunks, chinchillas, rats, bats, mice, and hosts of other tiny rodents. Together in a tornado of tiny claws and teeth, they leapt and crashed down upon Narsissa in tremendous fury as they snipped and snapped, scratched and bit.

  Narsissa was lost under them all. Only her screams could be heard, and only bursts of red and black could be seen shooting up from beneath the pile.

  “I know that my little friends won’t be enough to kill you, what with that awful Drakeness of yours, but it is enough to keep you still, and that’s all I need,” Nora said. With a final crack of her whip, it straightened like a sword and glistened with a sharp, green edge. The little creatures stampeded back from whence they came. Nora then raised the surging weapon over her head.

  “I know that the Drakeness can’t cure everything, like spinal injuries, brain damage, heart failure. Let’s try for all three in one shot,” Nora said as she threw down her straightened, sharpened whip.

  She would have succeeded if not for the red blast that hit her back and threw her off balance, leaving her to settle for one injury. While crippling, hitting only the top of Narsissa’s spinal cord wasn’t a death blow. Narsissa’s spine shattered and froze her face forever in a twisted guile of pain.

  “Mommy!” Gisbo screamed as she flew into the snow, the back of her robe smoking and gone, leaving her back bare. Her skin bubbled as her flesh dripped off of her. She screamed. Gisbo ran to her, then turned around to face the new assailant. He looked as if he savored each slow step forward, crutching the crusty snow with relish, staring at the third degree burned flesh. Nora lay helplessly, without essence or a Boon to protect her.

  Gisbo looked up, right into the face of . . .

  Gisbo snapped out of his dream and came back, for just a moment. Now he understood. Now he knew why they hid such a memory from him. It wasn’t fit for anyone with a living soul to hold on to.

  Gisbo looked up into the face of a man wearing a white, tattered, blood soaked robe with a goat skull atop his head and face, hiding his features. All Gisbo would remember were those red, fiery eyes, eyes just like his. The Goat Man walked forward, picked Gisbo up by the throat, and tossed him aside as he took his mother, his world, and changed it forever.

  “Eyes open. I want you to witness this, every single moment,” the Goat Man said. Fire burst out of the ground wrapping around his feet, preventing him from running, as another set pried his eyes open and held him still.

  The Goat Man removed a dagger and cut at Gisbo’s mother. He cut away a limb, an eye, an earlobe, pulled teeth, pulled one fingernail at a time. All the while, Gisbo watched, listened to every scream, and took in every horrible second. Little by little, darkness came around him and the boy known as Gisbo Falcon, now that his memories had come full circle, was changed forever . . .

  Gisbo’s eyes turned red and burst into fire just as they had in Heaven’s Shelter, just as they had when the wolves attacked him. A force, one he wasn’t fully in control of, something beyond elemental, took him over, and he was free of the mind and matter control of his torturer, something not even Vice Dastard was prepared for. Gisbo dropped from the air and like a freed beast from a cage, Gisbo flew at him, absorbing Fao and activating his feral form. After years of being used to not being pushed back, after years of being dominant, Vice Dastard was no longer the predator, but the prey . . .

  In a wicked strike, Gisbo struck out with his clawed knuckles, striking Vice right across the chin, sending him soaring like an arrow straight into the side of the canyon, spraying rock, rubble, and dust every which way.

  A good six feet into the wall of the canyon itself, buried in solid stone, Vice only had enough time to scrape dust out of his eyes before Gisbo was on him again with a crazed roar. Gisbo pounded him, over and over again, into the side of the canyon as loose boulders broke free, the ground shook, and the foundation of the canyon side loosened.

  Vice took it all, every shot, every elbow, every headbutt, as Gisbo went wild, seemingly growing in power with every strike but as quickly as the power surge came, it halted. Gisbo fell to the ground, grabbing at his head and pulling out clumps of his hair, screaming like a mad man. He slammed his forehead into the ground, over and over again, until he lost consciousness.

  It was over.

  Vice was garbed in a cracked, white energy with a few broken spots, much like how clear ice turns and fills with white when cracked. His mental force field shattered around him like falling glass. A few more blows, Vice knew, and he would have been dead.

  The son of Drakearon fell on his backside and sat, catching his breath, as he stared at the motionless Gisbo and the tremor of cracks across the ground that he had caused with his own forehead and power surge. Vice placed his face in his hands and erupted into a fierce, moaning cry.

  Once he had his fill and had caught his breath, Vice picked up the battered boy and carried him inside the still miraculously intact cabin and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Thirty Two: Vice’s Story

  When Gisbo awoke, he awoke screaming, only to realize he was back in the old cabin. It was all there, everything, at the front of his mind. What stood out above all was the Goat Man’s face, with his burning, red eyes afire, just like his . . .

  “You’re awake,” Vice said.

  “You took them away, the blocks. I remember everything,” Gisbo said.

  “So you do,” Vice said.

  “It wasn’t you. It never was. My father, he has no idea, and yet you took the credit for her death. Why?” Gisbo said.

  “I was there, in the aftermath of her death so the crime would be finished, and the Goat Man, would be free to do as he pleased without interference,” Vice said.

  “Who is he? Where is he?” Gisbo asked.

  “The Goat Man?” Vice said. “Finding him is downright impossible, and even if you did, he would kill you in a second. He’s beyond any of us,”

  “Why should I trust you? You killed, YOU KILLED SHAVED! I’ll never forgive you, NEVER! You want to train me? You want to train me to kill you? Then let’s get to it! Right here, right now,” Gisbo said.

  “And then what? You kill me, and then what? What do you do once your friend is avenged?” Vice asked, sounding strangely calm.

  “I find the Goat Man, and I kill him,” Gisbo said.

  “And then what?” Vice said.

  “DON’T LECTURE ME!” Gisbo screamed as he lunged at him, only to be stopped by a burst of psychic energy. “DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU, YOU BASTARD!”

  “Sit down, Gisbo,” Vice said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Get it now? This is why the blocks were put into place. If you knew, you would have dedicated your life to vengeance instead of helping others. Whether you want to believe me or not, I am not your enemy, and I am not helping you. Helping you is what the Renegades do. Helping is lending a hand. I am forcing your hand, along with my own, for what NEEDS to be done,” Vice said.

  Gisbo gritted his teeth, breathing hard.

  “Calm down,” Vice said. “Calm yourself.”

  “Screw you,” Gisbo said.

  “What do you know about me, Gisbo?” Vice asked.

  “That you’re a crazed maniac who killed one of my best friends!” Gisbo screamed.


  “Granted. Fine then, what do you know about my father?” Vice asked. Gisbo calmed, mostly out of confusion.

  “What?” Gisbo asked.

  “What do you know of my daughter?” Vice asked.

  Gisbo was silent.

  “Nina, she is my daughter. I understand you were once an item, and yet, you broke it off with her? Ever wonder why?” Vice asked.

  “I . . .” Gisbo started.

  “Nina still has images of you and her together, and she’s right. You were, are, supposed to be a couple, but, without even knowing exactly why, you broke it off with her. You didn’t feel like yourself around her, you felt your blood boil. She brought out a bad side of you, whereas Kennis brought out something good. Do you know why? Because of my bloodline, because of who my father is. Your blood, infected with the Drakeness now, causes a chemical reaction with your brain whenever you’re close to her, because the Dragon should not be present within you. My father’s blood should not flow through your veins. You haven’t met yet, but I assure you, you will, and very soon. Drakearon, my father, is coming for you,” Vice said.

  “You’re lying!” Gisbo said.

  “See, your blood boils around me as well, Gisbo. And why the hell would I lie? Sure, I’m crazy, but I’m not nuts,” Vice said. “You already helped take away Nina’s mother. Dare you kill her father too?”

  “I, I had no choice! She . . .” Gisbo stammered, grabbing at his pounding head.

  “I’ve never even met Nina, you know, never held her in my arms. She’s all I thought about in Glaknabrade. How is she?” Vice asked.

  Gisbo said nothing.

  “Fine, you don’t need to talk, but at least listen. The Sybils, they see what might be, where I have seen what WILL be. You know why?” Vice asked. “Because I’ve been to the future.”

  “How?” Gisbo asked.

  “Not important,” Vice said. “I know exactly what happens to you, your friends, this world . . . everything. You think this reality that you, we, reside in now to be the present, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Time is relative, and your time, your real time, it has already passed. You’ve failed, and Drakearon owns everyone and everything. In a phrase, he owns the future. The reality you belong to right now is the past to that future, and soon, very soon, events will happen to you that will change everything, all in an attempt to . . . well, perhaps I’ve said too much. Just know that I have already set things in motion, and unfortunately, your friend Shaved had to die,” Vice said.

  “That, that makes no sense at all! Blow it out your ass,” Gisbo said.

  “I said you didn’t need to speak, only listen, not that it matters. Soon, everything will change because of what I’ve done. Everything, but I am only the first step. Remember, this is the past. The present is already beyond you, where an alternate you does or doesn’t exist. I need you to trust me. Everything is riding on you, Gisbo. Everything,” Vice said.

  “I don’t believe this, any of it,” Gisbo said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Vice said.

  “You’ve already lied to me, spewing that crap about you being my dad!” Gisbo yelled. Vice laughed.

  “It hurt you because, for a moment, you believed it, didn’t you?” Vice asked.

  Gisbo said nothing.

  “Believe me, kid, you are your father’s son. Both of us read predictable fantasy growing up, and we always joked like that and planned how to screw with those we came across once we became strong, formidable warriors. Kids are so easy to tease; don’t take it personally,” Vice said.

  “You knew my dad?” Gisbo asked.

  “I did,” Vice said.

  “And Drakearon, he’s your father?” Gisbo asked.

  “Yes, but not in a traditional sense, as you may imagine,” Vice said. “But to answer both of your questions requires a story. Would you hear my story?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Gisbo asked.

  “Of course not,” Vice said.

  “Then, yes,” Gisbo said.

  “Can I release your holdings? Will you sit there and be good?” Vice asked.

  Gisbo thought for a moment, and finally nodded. Vice let go, and Gisbo eased back against the headboard.

  “That’s better. Now, listen and listen well. I want to tell this tale once and be done with it. My time is running out,” Vice said.

  “Your time?” Gisbo asked, but Vice ignored him and continued.

  “Way before either of us were born, way before the great Veil war, there was Drakearon. Before he became a tyrant, he was nothing more than a young, wandering swordsman with only one desire.

  “To prove himself, and to do that, he would need power.

  “Duels to the death were commonplace back then. Sometimes swordsmen would set up signs in the middle of towns to be challenged and Drakearon would challenge every one of them. As you can guess, he won every single match, slaying his opponents with ease, and usually without a scrape. No one, not even me, knows where he came from or his lineage. He was not there, then he was. His reputation grew like wildfire with every opponent he vanquished. Most swordsmen didn’t need a reason to fight, it was in their nature, unexplainable, so it was accepted. My father, however, had a different motive. In such days, warrior cultures were present everywhere. They set up the rulings, they dished out the learning materials, and so those with the sword were also those with access to knowledge. Drakearon dueled with everyone, at any chance, of all races, but he sought Flarians because of his gift, curse, whatever you want to call it. As you know, Drakearon had an ability beyond the elements, much like myself, given to him by the Dragon, a parasitic organism. With every Flarian he vanquished, Drakearon would not only absorb their essence, but their knowledge. Everything but his victim’s soul he would take, unbeknownst to everyone but himself,” Vice said.

  Gisbo said nothing, but looked on with a newfound curiosity.

  “By his late twenties, Drakearon was known as the man of sixty-six kills. Sixty-six men fell to his blade and no doubt a good 80% of them were Flarians. Their personalities craved battle to begin with, and Drakearon gladly obliged.

  “But around the same time, a man with a similar record achieved as much fame as Drakearon. Naturally, the two were destined to clash. This man was different. He did not hold a record of sixty-six kills, but sixty-six victories, most of which had limited casualties. Only when he needed to did this man slay. What thrilled Drakearon most was the fact this man was also a Flarian. A Flarian of noble birth, so the rumors said, descended by the Flarian Warlord of the current time, a man known as Vadid the Valiant. Their styles, their personalities, the way they carried themselves couldn’t have been more different.

  “Where Drakearon had fair features, Vadid was scruffy. Where Drakearon dressed neatly, in the most expensive clothing, Vadid was scrubby and wore shabby clothes. Where Drakearon’s power was stolen, Vadid’s was earned. The list could go on and on, but the most interesting difference was their fighting styles, or lack thereof in terms of Vadid. Drakearon was disciplined from book knowledge and his victims’ stolen muscle memories, no doubt mastered and passed down from generations. He was quick, clean, and to the point. Vadid learned from no man but himself, through experience alone, adapting and creating his own style that had no style. He only adapted. Their duel was organized and decided to start at moonrise, at the edge of the Flarian desert, where the ocean met the sand.”

  Gisbo knew the place. It was where he went every night during his training with Falcon. He couldn’t help but marvel that he had walked upon the same place, in the same footsteps of Vadid the Valiant, and now understood why he was drawn to that spot among countless others.

  “There, in their natural states, if you could call Drakearon’s abilities natural, they fought. This was before the Dragon and the Phoenix descended upon these men fully and changed them forever. Now, here is where it gets interesting. Vadid never read books on combat, but he was an avid reader, and there are places, Gisbo, throughout this world, doorways, that lead into ot
her universes, other worlds, other timelines than this one. In some places, such areas overlap, parts of their culture mix into our own, and vice versa.

  “There are other worlds, other than Thera, out there, Gisbo. I’ve seen them, witnessed them with my own eyes, realities on different planes of space and time. They may be infinite in number. The saying ‘history repeats itself’ is no lie, but not in the way you think. It is in other worlds, other timelines, where one different decision can alter everything; even the smallest choice can produce great change through a chain of events.

  “It is wondrous to behold. This fight between Drakearon and Vadid, believe it or not, had happened elsewhere, performed by two different, yet similar men, on a different world, in a different time. You see, Vadid had a power too, much like Drakearon’s. Rather than absorb knowledge through someone’s death, Vadid learned through someone’s life.

  “Vadid, before given the power to cut through and travel to other worlds, knew where such entrances existed. His heart urged him to such places, sometimes by accident. It was during one of these instances that he met a man from another world, a man with a foreign tongue, who, much like Vadid, had earned quite a reputation from his own duels. Because of his renown, he was hunted down by thrill seekers constantly and forced to retire. This man was now in the old age of his life and lived alone in caves for a life of peace and to write his manifesto. One such cave however, he found, crossed into Thera itself, and there he met Vadid the Valiant.

  “This man’s name was Miyomoto Musashi, a warrior called a samurai from a distant world known as Earth, with a warrior culture very similar to Thera’s at that time . . .”

  Gisbo’s mouth dropped a little bit at this, wanting so much to doubt him, but he found he couldn’t.

  “You see, Vadid’s power to learn from life instead of death was IAM’s very belief that knowledge should be shared. IAM had blessed Vadid with the gift of tongues, the ability to understand and speak any language. Vadid could converse with any one of any religion, language, time, place and could draw similarities and form tight bonds of peace and friendship. Vadid learned from Musashi, who may or may not have been himself or a part of himself in another reality. Who knows? Either way, Miyomoto Musashi and Vadid the Valiant spent many days leading up to Vadid’s duel with Drakearon training and talking with one another, discussing their lives, sharing each other’s worlds, places, experiences, and both inspired the other’s life.