Renegade Rising (The Renegade Series) (2 page)

“A BOY! A BOY!? He’s an abomination! A MONSTER! For years, your own late father helped me banish the Flarians from our countryside; years! And thanks to men like him, Oak County once again has safety and security. Your father would be ashamed to know his own son wishes to undo what he finished, to shelter the very sort of creature that killed him,” Karm said, waving his finger. Prince barked in agreement. Ricard sighed.

“But what would you have me do with him? Toss him back in the woods for the wolves? They’d rip him to shreds!” Ricard argued further. Suddenly, Karm’s eyes sparkled with an idea.

“Is that old storage shed still stationed outside the castle walls?” Karm asked.

“The shed still stands, but hasn’t been cleaned for years. It would be unliveable. You’re not seriously thinking about . . .” Ricard started.

“Just remember, my novice General, it is my job to think, not yours. As a soldier, all you must do is swing your sword and simply obey! You have it quite easy, you know,” Karm said with a swig from his bottle, coughing hoarsley before continuing.

“Yes, the shack will be his new home. Take him there now,” Karm ordered. Ricard looked from the boy, to Karm, and back to the boy again.

“Any more arguing tonight, General? Or would you like to join your patrolman scrubbing the waste shoots?” Karm asked, as he picked up Prince.

“No, my Lord. As you command,” Ricard said.

“Immediately,” Karm ordered.

“Immediately,” Ricard confirmed. He started walking with the boy in his arms, stopped and turned to look at Karm once more.

“AND, we will clean the shack on the morrow, if that’s what you were wondering. It’s times like these when I miss your father,” Karm snapped. “Lock the door behind the boy when you put him in. You’re dismissed.”

Without a word, Ricard turned and closed the door behind him.

The rain, now mixed with a slight hail, seemed to pour harder on Ricard with every step. The boy shook in his arms, practically vibrating, but Ricard made no effort to hold him closer. He arrived at the shack ten minutes later with silent gratitude. He quickly unbolted the door, thrust it open with a swift kick and entered.

At first, Ricard was thankful to be out of the rain until he took smell of the place and nearly lost his supper. The stink seemed to snake its way up through his nostrils and clawed at his brain like a squealing rat. He gagged violently and threw his cloak over his nose as he began to knock shovels, rakes and buckets out of his way. Each yard instrument was caked in dried manure and within the manure, maggots jiggled.

After several long minutes, Ricard had managed to clear away a dry spot underneath the window toward the back of the shack and had arranged several old feedbags into a makeshift bed. He laid Gisbo down and wrapped him tighter in his scarlet blanket. The general then stood up and looked over the boy. A deep curiosity began to sink in as he stared at the blood red blanket, a color he had not seen in years. Where did this boy come from and if he were indeed a Flarian, then . . . Ricard’s eyes suddenly widened as a terrible revelation crossed his mind. His own late father’s domineering voice boomed through his head. The voice whispered how weak he was, how sentimental he was and how he would never surpass his lineage with such hindrances.

Ricard winced and closed his eyes, cursing the darkness around him. He felt sick to his stomach and it was this feeling that also set in determination, determination to prove the voice wrong. He looked down at the sleeping boy again; this time, only coldness enveloped his stare. In one snatch, the general ripped the scarlet blanket off the boy and quickly rushed to the door, slamming it behind him. Ricard began to sprint home with the red obscenity tucked under his arm and fought the temptation to look back. If he did look back, it would only prove his father was correct about him. Try as he might however, the revelation he had come across would not leave him. The thought perched upon his mind like a dark bird and squawked madly.

If the child did prove to be a Flarian, it would be his job, as Karm’s General, to kill the boy . . .

Kill, kill, kill . .
. the dark bird squawked.

Another massive lightning strike lit the sky and woke the sleeping boy, known only as Gisbo. He sat up, rubbed at his eyes and took in his new surroundings. At least, he tried. His eyes watered from the stinging smell within the darkness. He lifted his hand to hold his nose, only to see a large, hairy spider between his knuckles. The boy let out a small squeal of displeasure and shook it off, throwing it into the darkness where now the various rakes and shovels began to morph into imaginary monsters before him, all with claws and teeth. He began to cry softly.

“Mommy? Daddy?” Gisbo mouthed between chattering teeth and sniffles. The words were only out of instinct. No faces appeared in his mind to comfort him, only blankness. More tears poured down his face in spite of this and he found himself leaning against the back of the shed. He hugged his knees to his face to keep warm, shivering now from both cold and fear. He was about to let out a wailing cry when he suddenly heard an odd, metal grating noise, the sound of the lock being opened from the outside. A few seconds later, the shack door swung open.

Gisbo saw nothing in the doorway. He only heard heavy boots squeak across the weak floorboards. Thunder suddenly flashed outside and the man was lit up for Gisbo to see. The man was cloaked from head to toe to shelter himself from the storm, but instead of feeling fear, Gisbo felt something else. He couldn’t quite explain it either. The cloaked man sat down beside him and retrieved a blanket from his pack. He threw it around Gisbo, wrapping him up tightly before hugging him close to his chest.

Gisbo breathed deeply and smelled tobacco leaves. Oddly enough, this smell comforted him and activated a memory. But before it could fully form, it fizzled out, leaving only blackness. Even though Gisbo couldn’t see the memory, he still felt its effects. Like a lock giving way in a triumphant click, he finally understood the feeling that this man’s presence gave off.

Peace.

But not just any peace. A peace so powerful, so comforting, it set him to sleep almost immediately.

“Sleep, young one,” the cloaked man said, rocking him gently for a moment. He then laid him down onto the feedbags and looked down upon him with moist eyes.

“Until we meet again, my little warrior . . . my Gisbo . . .” the man finished. He bowed lightly and kissed the boy on the forehead. He then rose, made his way to the shack door and threw it open. Unlike Ricard, this man turned back for one last look and a single tear dripped down his face before he closed the door behind him.

Not a soul saw the man enter or leave Oak County that stormy night, but if they had, Karm’s reasons for shaking would have been validated.

The man was cloaked in blue.

Chapter One:
A Name for Strength

The stories of history must be told,
of the land of Thera, a sight to behold.
A place beyond your wildest dreams;
where endless possibility is not as it seems.
Where people filled with morning light
can turn darker than a moonless night.

For power rests within their souls
and ancient gifts will take their toll
So strong and wise your heart must be
to find what others refuse to see.
Hardships a many and battles long
So in cornered peril just sing this song.
Destiny calls and win or lose,
It is not how you fight but how you choose…
- Vadid the Valiant – Warlord

Gisbo sat at the back corner of the schoolhouse reading the familiar lines of the old poem. He had memorized the poem years ago, but he still loved to read it, especially when he was angry and especially when stuck in school. The two often came hand in hand. Hiding the book inside his boring textbook, he continued to read when . . .

Clang! Clang! Clang!
The school bell sounded. A large smile stretched across his face as he shut the book with a slap upon hearing the lovely sound, the sound of freedom!

“Finally I can get away from this hellhole! Smell ya later, butt knockers! WAHOOO!” Gisbo cheered aloud.

“Check it out, dog boy even howls. Funny,” said a tall, handsome boy with slicked hair. A small group of girls giggled and followed the handsome boy outside. Gisbo tightened his fist, ready to follow, until a stern voice halted him.

“Going somewhere, boy?” Mr. Foogal asked with an arrogant, prissy air to his voice. He was a portly man with thick-rimmed glasses and a circular bald spot on the top of his head. Ever since Gisbo had first mentioned his own name, Mr. Foogal had taken an immediate dislike to him and made a point to show it to the rest of the class. In his mind, anyone who would think of naming a child the Flarian term for dog must have come from an uncivilized, brutish bloodline.

Why was he required to teach such worthless potential? It was only wasted effort, effort that could instead be used to impress and train the privileged children, such as Thomson Ricard, which would then give him favor in the eyes of their parents and would hopefully lead to the increase of his social standings. Maybe then he could even have a future career in the castle with all the other politicians and bigwigs. Why, with a position like that, he would easily be able to afford the silken purple robe hanging in Mack’s tailor shop, it would be . . .

ACHOO!

His thoughts were broken as Gisbo let loose with a massive sneeze. Mr. Foogal closed his eyes and felt warm spittle wash across his face in a grisly mist.

“Oh, didn’t see you standing there, Foogal,” Gisbo sneered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Gisbo then looked up at him and smiled. Seeing that smile and feeling Gisbo’s gaze upon him made the bald patch atop Mr. Foogal’s head instantly grow hot. The bald spot, which was dead center atop his head, was a frequent target for Gisbo, who called him “Mr. Scrotum Head” whenever given the chance.

Mr. Foogal gritted his teeth. For ten years, these back and forth insults had occurred. The boy was wild and represented a generation that Warlord Karm had finally put a stop to in his reign of power. Thanks to him, the warrior culture was now dead. The educated now controlled the muscle with political leashes. As was proper. Mr. Foogal couldn’t imagine such brutish types actually making important decisions. IAM forbid! And this boy, this scoundrel, rather than focus on his studies like the rest of the children, seemed to want to bring the times back whether he knew it or not. But that wasn’t the only reason Mr. Foogal despised him. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something in the boy’s eyes that made him shiver. At the same time, that same something filled him with envy. Like a jealous child, he saw something in the boy that he himself as a man did not have.

Tenacity.

As much as he was respected in his fields of expertise among his peers, he always felt less than a man when standing in the presence of one of Karm’s Elekai’ warriors. It wasn’t in the way the fighters carried themselves; no, there was something in the eyes and these eyes belonged to the boy as well. In his own way, he had tried to overcompensate for this feeling of weakness by continually mocking the boy in front of the class. What he didn’t expect however, was that the boy would throw it right back, undeterred, and thus, the ten year war of words had ensued. Gisbo was sixteen now and done with schooling under him. It was about time he let him have it and end things for good.

“I really can’t blame them for picking on you,” Mr. Foogal said. Gisbo’s eyes narrowed and looked straight at him. Again, Mr. Foogal felt the top of his head burning, just waiting for the name calling to begin.

“This going somewhere, scrotum head? Or can’t I get you outta my ass for at least one summer?” Gisbo asked. The vein in Mr. Foogal’s forehead pulsed dangerously. He stood in silence and waited for the last student to leave the classroom. No sooner had a girl stepped one foot upon the steps outside than Mr. Foogal slammed the door with tremendous force and rebounded upon Gisbo with ten years of pent up frustration behind him.

“Listen, you foul mouthed little crap! I passed you just so I could get you out of MY ass for a summer! Don’t you forget that. Don’t you ever, EVER forget that! You are the stupidest thing to ever walk through my classroom! You’ll amount to nothing but a ditch digger in this life! You know that?” Mr. Foogal hissed in his ear, the vein in his forehead looking as if it would burst. Gisbo only clenched his fist.

“Oh, what’s this? You wish to hit me? That’s how you solve all your problems, isn’t it, boy? Just punch them away? Well, go ahead! You’re sixteen now, you’ll go to prison, so you better it make it good. I’ll take a hit just to know an animal like you will go right where he belongs, his cage!” Mr. Foogal hissed. It had finally happened. Ten years and it had finally happened. Mr. Foogal lost it. He grabbed Gisbo by both shoulders and pushed him so hard that the boy fell right off his feet. In disbelief of his own actions, Mr. Foogal first looked down at Gisbo, and then at his trembling hands.

“You . . . you like that, you little crap? Come on, get up, right here, give me a good one! Punch your way into prison!” Mr. Foogal challenged, pointing to his chin.

Gisbo coughed once, got up slowly and shook himself off. He than snapped a gaze upward and looked Mr. Foogal square in the eyes.