Renegade Rising (The Renegade Series) (30 page)

“I think you forget the place you have invaded. This is home to the last true remaining warrior culture on Thera. You honestly think they would allow you ground for bartering?” Narroway questioned with glowing pride.

Blades were instantly wrapped around the necks of the Strifes by more Renegades. Suddenly, long ropes of energy in every color extended, attaching themselves to the Strifes' weapons, and they were immediately disarmed. Their lost weapons soared back along the energy ropes and into the open hands of Renegades, leaving a dangerous situation remedied and completely turned about. Lokin’s face went white. He wasn’t expecting this at all.

“Always, always power up your weapon when in the presence of another Elekai' Warrior, Lokin. You never know when the same race is about you; even the Renegaras around here know the basic rule. You have come ill prepared, a trait that embarrasses your Shininja class. You will die, right here, for the death of one of the most noble men I have ever known,” Narroway said as he drew back his fiery sword, ready to sever Lokin’s head from his neck. Suddenly, a sharp yell hit the air.

“No! Don’t do it! He’s my Dad!” screamed Rake, as he ran to the stage and wrapped his arms around his father in attempt to protect him from certain death. Narroway lowered his sword slightly as Rake held his father like a life preserver with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You can’t do it! He’s the only family I have left!” Rake screamed, his watery eyes pleading with Narroway. The Chieftain stood staring at the boy as Falcon and Moordin released their grips slightly, enough for Lokin to grab Rake with blinding speed. The traitorous Shininja ignited his blade with his own fiery glow, not about to make the same mistake as the Strifes. He held the dangerous blade over his son’s throat.

“Dad? Dad!? What, what are you doing?” Rake stammered. Lokin looked down at his son in his arms as if he was holding a priceless treasure, grinning with a greedy smile.

“Shut it! Well, it seems my son isn’t such a failure after all. About time you served me some sort of purpose, eh boy? Now back away, all of you, or I will slice my son's throat open, right here, for all to see!” Lokin said, as he spun to leer at Narroway. “Is that something your conscience can take, Narroway? Well, is it? I never knew if I had the complete loyalty of the Strifes, so one must always have an ace up one's sleeve. I see all of you, even now, thinking how to kill me without hurting the boy. I think it’s time I keep your attention elsewhere. Thank IAM for such idiotic subordinates, eh Falcon and Moordin?” Lokin taunted with glee. Suddenly, two green-clad Shininjas dropped out of the trees, trapping Gisbo and Rolce’s throats behind their ignited blades.

Panic stretched across Falcon and Moordin’s faces as Lokin walked with his son past Narroway, making his way through the crowd. Instantly, those around Lokin ignited their weapons and surrounded him. Lokin simply smiled and stared at Narroway as if to say, 'Well?'

“Let him through,” Narroway ordered, causing Lokin to smile even broader. All the weapons disengaged their essence and parted the way for Lokin to pass. Gisbo and Rolce stood looking at each other each saying the same thing with their eyes: “How could we be so stupid?”

“I figured you heard me outside Purah’s office, mutt, but it really didn’t matter. How ironic that you got sent there for punching out my poor excuse for a son. Oh, don’t worry, I could care less. The little weakling probably deserved it. You have incurred my wrath for one thing, though, and that’s squealing. Let me show you what happens to squealers where I come from . . .” Lokin said as he made his way closer to Gisbo.

Gisbo squirmed every which way, but it was no use against the essential power of the man holding him. He watched as Lokin reached to his side to pull his other dagger from its sheath, powered it up, and spun it around his fingers playfully. Gisbo winced. Lokin was within striking distance. The Shininja grasped his dagger tightly and reared back for the kill.

Gisbo closed his eyes, bracing for a strike that never came. He opened them only to see Lokin, frozen, focused on something behind him with a look of horror and surprise.

Foxblade struck quickly, coming out of a stealth position with both daggers glowing a brilliant yellow. He wasted no time plunging his first blade through the Shininja holding Gisbo. The Strife let his weapon drop from Gisbo's throat, roaring from the pain that seared his kidney. Foxblade reared back and plunged the same blade deep into the Shininja’s chest, planted his foot beneath the new wound and kicked forward to free his blade once more. The Strife fell backward, dead before he hit the ground. Foxblade wasn’t done with his combo quite yet. He swung his other leg in a roundhouse kick, catching the chin of Rolce’s capturer who dropped the young Renega.

“Duck,” Foxblade ordered Rolce, who obeyed immediately, gaping as Foxblade continued his dance of death. With his other dagger held at the ready, he let loose, slicing the throat of the green-clad Shininija with a back hand while spinning his body for velocity and force. The Shinija grasped his bleeding throat and toppled over, gurgling. Foxblade completed his spin and thrust the same blade upward at Lokin, his aquamarine eyes as like blue fire. Lokin took a step back from Foxblade, clutching Rake even closer to himself like a shield.

“Drop your boy and I’ll kill you. Best I can offer,” Foxblade stated. Both Renegades locked eyes.

“Back off, you’ve already spilled Strife blood, Fox of blades. They will come for you especially. I’ll be sure of that,” Lokin threatened, nervousness crackling in his voice. Foxblade didn’t bat an eyelash.

“Let them come. I’ll arrange a place of meeting on the morrow and kill them all. My original offer stands,” Foxblade said without moving his eyes from Lokin, who took another step of retreat. Foxblade sheathed his other dagger and let that free hand fall into his side pouch, pulling up three razor-sharp throwing discs. Lokin’s face crinkled in fear, but his eyes widened.

“You wouldn’t. What if you miss? You could kill my boy!” Lokin said, trying to dissuade Foxblade from a reckless decision. Lokin turned with a quick glance at Narroway, Falcon and Moordin’s reactions. All radiated confidence.

“I don’t miss,” Foxblade said and drawing back his arm, he threw an energy-charged disc, aimed directly at Lokin’s head. The disc would have hit true if it weren’t for the black, slick, oil-like substance that surged up around Lokin. The sludge blocked the shot with a resounding metallic clang and black smoke spiraled in the air upon the point of impact. Foxblade spun around as a newcomer blasted a ball of the same black ooze at him, narrowly missing. The Renegade Shininja leapt into the sky, called upon his innate Soarian power of flight and hovered in the air, watching the ooze hit the ground. Within moments, it had eaten through it like acid, leaving a crator. You couldn’t see his face under the mask, but Foxblade’s eyes betrayed his surprise. The other Renegades who saw the figure standing before them gasped, especially Rolce, who clutched Gisbo's shoulder with thick stabbing fingers and pointed frantically with his other hand.

“Gisbo! It’s him! The man from my dream! The guy who has Jackobi!” Rolce screamed.

Chapter Fourteen:
The Drakeness Lives

The large man from Rolce’s dream was dressed in Nazarite attire, except all was black. The top of his head was bald and blackened eyelids washed over white pupil-less eyes. A scraggly beard, also black, partially obscured an empty rotten-toothed smile.

Foxblade continued to hover in the air, staring at the new enemy to enter the fray. The man in black met his gaze and stepped forward, speaking in a booming, steely voice.“Foxblade! You look surprised to see me and . . . is that Falcon I see? And oh, Moordin? Moordin, Moordin, how are you, my old friend? How long has it been?” The large man said, his cruel tone clashing with the friendly words. Moordin leapt forward with a mix of surprise and fury in his features.

“Shax? You live? It’s not possible!” Moordin said, completely beside himself.

“One can live quite well when one never died, friend. Now,” Shax started but Moordin cut him off in a flash, a ring of madness to his voice.

“You are no friend of mine!” Moordin bellowed. Shax grinned wider.

“So touchy, you always were. Is that any way to greet an old friend? Your best friend, mind you? I would assume that after all these years away from each other I’d at least get a welcome back? I see you haven’t changed a bit since that day. The day you THOUGHT you killed me,” Shax said as Martha appeared by her husband's side.

“I don’t know how you returned from hell, but I have no problem sending you back myself, demon!” Martha said as she ignited her own Nazarite weapon.

“Ah, still letting wifey fight your battles for you, Moordin? At least something hasn’t changed,” Shax taunted.

“My husband needs . . . Martha continued until she was interrupted by Moordin.

“MARTHA! Behind me!” Moordin lashed out in a tone so determined, so unlike him, that even the tenacious Martha was startled.

“I, I understand,” Martha answered and she actually smiled, glad to retreat.
This is the man I married! Do me proud, my Moordin
, she thought.

“Ah now this, THIS, is much better. The Moordin I knew of old has finally arrived. It seems old age has not wilted your fighting spirit one bit, why,” Shax broke off when his wandering eyes fell on Rolce. Suddenly, his face and tone morphed from feigned surprise to real shock.

“I don’t believe my eyes! My boy? All grown up? Rolce?” Shax sputtered as he walked toward Rolce. Moordin jumped between his pupil and archrival in a flash and, with a spin of his staff, blasted the street. Thick stone rubble, now glowing green, flew towards Shax in a rain of death.

Shax, with a wave of his own staff, ignited his weapon. Thick black veins stretched across his body and his weapon smoked and dripped more black sludge. Shax surrounded his body with the stuff like a shield just as Moordin’s powerful blast collided with him like fireworks. The force shoved Shax’s feet across the ground, nearly toppling the big man over, even in his protected state. Particles of green and black sifted through the air like snowflakes in the aftermath and Shax shot a wicked grin of delight in Moordin’s direction.

“Moordin, that was a strike to kill,” Shax taunted, only to be interrupted by a frantic Lokin.

“SHAX! ENOUGH! Get me out of here, Narroway is ascending!” Lokin yelled. Shax turned a worried glance to see the powerful Narroway blasting in like a rocket aboard a skeeting sword. Lokin tossed Rake aside, grabbed Shax’s arm and in an instant both men were gone in a blast of smoke and sludge, leaving black, vein-like cracks in the ground where they had stood. The splattered sludge evaporated with a sound like crackling fire. Narroway eased up on his flight, disengaged his essence and landed neatly beside Moordin.

“Drakeness. So, the evil still lives on Thera. IAM help us all,” Narroway said to himself as the crowd gathered around the smoking remains. Moordin spun around to face his subordinate.

“Rolce, are you all right? You aren’t hurt?” Moordin asked with deep concern. Rolce's face was white as a fish belly. He stood for a moment, lip quavering, afraid to ask the question. The color drained from Martha’s face too, knowing full well what was on the boy's mind.

“Honey, I,” was all Martha could sputter out.

“What did he mean by 'my boy'? Was that man, my . . . ” Rolce couldn’t even say the word. His eyes pleaded with Moordin to answer no. Moordin turned away for a moment and covered his face with a hand. He then turned back, desolation in his expression. Rolce knew the answer before Moordin had opened his mouth to speak.

“Rolce, I never wanted to tell you; there are some things one just shouldn’t need to know. I only kept it from you to protect you from pain . . .” Moordin implored with concern.

“You still haven’t answered me. Is Shax my father?” Rolce asked, tone still beseeching.

“Shax Holiner is your father,” Moordin admitted, his head sunk low.

Gisbo stared at his friend, stupefied by the answer. Rolce stood with a distant gaze and walked away from the scene with his back turned to everyone, his wide shoulders hunched, then broke into a fast sprint.

“Go talk to him, please,” Martha pleaded with Gisbo. Narroway nodded his agreement. Gisbo inclined his head in assent as he turned to pursue his friend.

Gisbo caught up with Rolce in the forest, sitting on the steps to their cabin. By this time, Harpie was nearly full-grown and had learned to fly. She was perched on Rolce’s shoulder, head tilted in concern for her companion. Gisbo walked up to them slowly and sat down beside him on the steps. Oddly, Rolce wasn’t crying, but staring with empty eyes into the forest.

“Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me, for that matter? They all knew and they all promised no secrets,” Rolce said after a few awkward minutes of silence.

“I dunno, man,” was all Gisbo could come up with in response.

“He killed a boy, Gisbo, same age as you and me. Killed him and laughed afterwards. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,” Rolce said, shaking as he said it. Gisbo opened his mouth to say something, but immediately closed it. The words just weren’t there. Rolce continued.

“I have never seen true evil before, ever. Sure, I’ve seen some arrogant people in my lifetime, but when I saw his face, contorted in a smile, it honestly scared me. He looked like he was having the time of his life! I thought about my place as a Renegade, how I was being trained to stop men like him. I was ready to do my part. I wanted to save Jackobi so badly and now all I can think about is what if I become something like that down the line? What if I become my father? Ugh, just saying the word . . .” Rolce whispered as he dropped his face into his hands in shame.