Renegade Reborn (26 page)

In the next instant, Vadid was there in a flash of white, floating right before them within the ring of fire. He looked to Jack, then to Rolce, and smiled a big, shit eating grin before he wrapped two big hairy arms around them and hugged them close, before letting them go, and gazing over them, beaming with pride as if he were their father.

“Rolce Moordin and Jackobi Foxblade! Oh, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you in the flesh! Well, close enough . . . You know, this is a failed greeting all together. Let’s try again! Ah, Rolce, come here son,” Vadid said as he wrapped Rolce up in a big bear hug, slapping him on the back as he did so, then pulled away with a bigger smile than before. “Ah, just look at ya, boy! Strong as your Daddy and as pretty as your Mom! And you, you Jack! All this talking over the years without even bein’ able to pour ya a proper drink! Come here, son!”

“I don’t do . . . OOF!” Jack started, unable to get the word, “hugs” out in time.

“Oh, you damn well better!” Vadid said, pulling away and looking him over.

“And you, by IAM’s ear lobes, you’ve got the same ugly mug as your Dad’s!” Vadid said, erupting into laughter. Rolce joined him.

“I . . . hmph,” Jackobi growled.

“And the same sense of humor as a box of rocks!” Vadid said. He then took on a curious glare to his face as he began poking Jack in the bicep, over and over with a hairy, sausage of a finger. “Same upper body strength too . . . I’ve seen more meat on a gerbil for IAM’s sake . . .”

“Would you stop that!” Jack said, pulling away from him. This caused Vadid to erupt into more infectious laughter, as he placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Oh, boys, this, this is such a pleasure for me, meeting you both like this. I have so much I want to say, so much I want to tell ya, but my time’s short, too damn short, so I want you to listen.” Vadid said, adapting a more serious tone. “Rolce, Jack? Study this chain carefully, every bit of it, and Rolce, when the time comes to face him, to go against Purah and that big Berserker sword of his, well, I’ll say this . . . “ Vadid started as he leaned in, and whispered something in Rolce’s ear. Rolce listened carefully, and then, felt a smile rise to his face.

“Really?” Rolce asked. Vadid smiled back, and nodded.

“And as for you, Jack. I have one piece of advice . . .” Vadid said, dropping his smile into the utmost serious of face, as he put both of his hands on his shoulders.

“Yes?” Jack asked. Vadid then leaned in to tell him a secret, and instead, paused before he reached his ear, sniffed him, then pulled away.

“Take a shower, you smell like ass . . .” Vadid said.

“What!?” Jack asked. Rolce erupted into laughter.

“OK, MEN! PULL!” Vadid said as he leapt at the chain, and together, they all pulled as hard as they could with Drakearon, helpless to do anything, but shout curses and obscenities at them, firing blast after blast at the blue ring of fire, but to no avail.

A few moments later, the chain snapped free, and the group fell back and landed gently against the back end of spinning fire, floating and breathing hard.

“I’ve never been good with goodbyes, so I won’t say ‘em. Just remember, when times go darkest, and they will, and when hope is out of your reach, you can do no worse than remember the stories of old, the fairy tales, for within them is not just the echo of the one, truest of stories, but yours as well! I love you both, with all I am. Thank you, oh, and Jack, one last thing . . .” Vadid said.

“Uh, yes?” Jack asked.

“Seriously, the ass, it’s everywhere . . . take a shower . . .” Vadid said.

And then, they were back, the two of them falling off their seated positions and onto the floor, wrapped in the tangle of a black chain with a glistening turquoise tint.

“Did that, did that really just happen?” Rolce asked.

“It did.” Jack said, letting out a clenched breath of relief.

“Vadid the Valiant . . . I met Vadid the Valiant, that was, that was,” Rolce started, and then he suddenly began to giggle, then burst into full, stomach burning laughter as he rolled about on the floor, his face reddening, his eyes full of tears, desperately trying to finish his sentence.

“And . . . he . . . he . . . said, he said you smell like ass!”

Chapter Twelve: All Hail Ranto!

Malik Strife strolled through the crowd, all of which cheered his name in a rising anthem, an anthem for the man who brought their senses so much pleasure in the ring, the one place where Malik truly felt at home, for it was there, his skill for violence was not abhorred, but honored. The ring, the one place he loved and the one place that loved him back. The Goat Man was right. They would listen to him. He was probably the only man they were capable of listening to. He spoke their language, and that language, was chaos.

In purposeful driven strides, strides he had not had for so long, he climbed the steps to the ring of battle where all had fallen before him, only this time, his opponent, lied not in the ring, but above him . . . Thera itself.

The cheers were deafening now, carrying all the way up the sides of the canyon of the Black Scar. They were the voices of killers, of thieves, of rapists, of sadists, of the crazed and they all screamed one name . . .

Malik.

The former Strife prince now stood in the center of his home, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed, taking in the cheers of his subjects. Originally, he thought they cheered for him out of a sense of joy, he now realized they were pleading. They were the cries of the downtrodden, they were the cheers of men lost in darkness, looking for purpose, for life, and within him, they saw what they were missing, they saw what they wanted, and they saw what they wanted to be! And that’s when it hit Malik, and he finally understood his destiny.

Since he left the Strifes, he had been trying desperately to find his purpose, his reason for being, and now it had finally clicked inside of him. It had been there all along, staring him right in the face and, while he hated to admit it even to himself, it was the Goat Man that gave him the eyes to see. It was the Black Scar. The Black Scar was his destiny, his home, designed to give him purpose, and in return, he would give purpose to it, like a perfect symbiotic relationship.

They were one, and soon, they would be all . . .

Slowly, he let his hand open his pouch and out of it, by the hair, he pulled the head of none other than the old king of the scar, Gritty. Membranes hung from his stump of a neck, looking like greased, purple snakes. The crowd, at the site, suddenly grew very quiet, waiting and ready to hang on Malik’s every word.

The new king of Black Scar did not disappoint as he raised his voice to the crowd, channeling the booming, inherited voice of his grandfather, Vadid the Valiant, and with it, he stirred the hearts of his followers for war, a war not to preserve peace but to destroy it . . .

“Brothers! Here, in my grasp, lies what remains of a man who claimed right and superiority over others not by strength, but by an artificial strength, a strength bought through wealth and backstabbing! And this . . .” Malik said, shaking the head by its hair for more emphasis. “This is what happens when the gall and arrogance of a man goes too far! This is what happens when someone thinks they can control ME! This is what happens when someone thinks they can control YOU!”

The crowd exploded into cheers. Malik continued.

“NO LONGER! I see you all well! I know who you are and you know me! We, my brothers, we are the broken! We are the cast out! We are the mentally unstable! We are the criminals! We are the bane of this world and why? WHY, is it because we have chosen to embrace the true shade of humanity? Is it because we were brave enough to cast aside such petty things as honor, respect and love, for our own natures, our own desires, for true unapologetic freedom? Societal BULLSHIT!” Malik screamed, spiking the head onto the ground so hard the top of it split open and fluid poured from it like a split coconut.

“They call us psychotic, they call us scum, they say that we have problems! NO! I argue, that we are not the problem, but rather, we are the solution and we are the future my brothers! We so few who have risen above law, society and morals for who we are, and what we want! What is it that we truly want? What makes our hearts come alive? I’ll tell you! It is CHAOS! Chaos is alive! Chaos is always moving, chaos is fair! From chaos we were born and from chaos we will die!

It is time to rise my brothers! It is time to rise from the darkness of this pit they have forced us into! The world is our pit now! The world is now covered in our darkness, our friend! It is time we preach our message across Thera! It is time we stomp out the weaklings who have climbed to the high places by playing and manipulating society’s rules! It’s time to break it down, and make them say it! EVOLVE OR DIE! EVOLVE OR DIE!” Malik screamed. The crowd took up the chant, saying it over and over, letting their voices carry high and far out of the canyon until Malik raised a hand for silence.

“Do not look at me as a leader, or a king, or anything with a title. I am at the center of the chaos. If you move with me, then together, we will destroy everything and start anew! We will be a cleansing flame! We will destroy the leaders, we will destroy the cultures, we will destroy the symbols and as a whole, we as humanity, will become what we were born to be! Free! For it is only in chaos, is there true freedom!

Freedom isn’t earned, Freedom isn’t given, Freedom isn’t fought for, Freedom, is lived! Now, let us rise as one my brothers! Let us march onto every city and fill it with fire and brimstone! Let us break down the gates of Oak County, and then, let us march against this Drakearon, and show him, there is nothing wrong with free will! What’s wrong, is when one imposes their will on another! Call with me! Let your voices rise once more! Let them come! Bring us your diseased, your tired, your sick! Bring us the downtrodden, the outcasts, the poor and let us make war! WHO’S WITH ME!? EVOLVE OR DIE!” Malik screamed, bursting himself into the turquoise fire of the Man-Dragon as the Scar, in unison chanted,
Evolve or Die! Evolve or Die! Evolve or Die!

And just like that, the Broken, as they would soon call themselves, led by Malik, influenced by the Goat Man, was formed.

Above the crowd, The Goat Man looked down from a nook in the canyon, marveling at the unity in the chaos, and the chaos in the unity, a perplex anomaly. He then saw the man in the middle and he smiled beneath his mask, unbelieving how well it all went. His pawn behaved wonderfully. He channeled his words as if they were his own.

Satisfied, the Goat Man leaned back against the canyon, closed his eyes, and saw a game board with three pieces. One piece was in the shape of a Goat, one in the shape of a Dragon, and the other, in the shape of a Phoenix. The Goat Man reached out and grabbed the Goat, representing his disciple, Malik, made his move, and waited, watching the Phoenix and Dragon pieces carefully and wondering, which would be the first to move . . .

Purah stood, watching Drakearon from the doorway of his still under construction throne room. The man who would be God stood stoically, perfectly at ease, watching his followers go to work with large, pleasurable smiles, thankful for such an honor, thankful that they would be the ones to supply their Deity’s great golden ass a place to park. Even Purah had to admit that the throne was a thing of awe to behold and an impressive display of human ingenuity.

The gigantic, ivory, gold, and black marble throne sat atop a granite base, as the back rest stretched upward rising and rising all the way through a three circled opening in the ceiling, shaped in the mark of the Drakeness, where it kept going, far and high into the sky, where perched at the top, was a great, golden light, shining and giving comfort in the darkened world for all who followed, but even Purah knew that the light was fading. Their resources were being pushed to the limits in the past year and knew, as always, Drakearon had a plan to fix this, hence the Man-Dragon’s reason for summoning him.

Purah took a few steps forward, clear of mind, ready to speak to him, and it was then he felt it again, his connection to Drakearon in the way only a Dark Sybil could understand.

Unlike Drakearon’s other followers who were infused with an altered form of Drakearon’s blood known as The Drakeness, Purah had received a special, untainted, natural infusion of Drakearon’s blood, free of the addictive tendencies that granted him an awareness and perception to the Dragon’s voice and power that was nearly on a level as Drakearon himself. It was because of this untainted infusion, that sometimes, when he got close to the Man-Dragon, and when his mind was weighed down by something that bothered him, Purah would both feel and see what bothered him and for an instant, he was taken back to a past still fresh within Drakearon’s mind, as well as his own, for it was a memory they both shared different perspectives on . . .

“Ranto Narroway, so good of you to arrive so promptly,” Drakearon said without turning around as he paced about the empty space of the would be Throne Room, as his followers ran about, taking measurements and writing up blue prints for his approval. Ranto joined him by his side as Drakearon was handed the final blue prints of his throne room. He held it out for Ranto.

“Amazing, is it not? Human ingenuity at its finest. This may seem, grandiose, but it is necessary. A God would not sit on a throne of malleable ingredients. No. Only the best will do. The people need to see brilliance, beauty, and height to match their expectations of what a God would be.” Drakearon said.