Rise of the Retics (8 page)

Harnessing all the strength he had left in his body Jaxon violently swung the shield in an arc, but he was too late, Samantha had already tumbled back and was preparing her next charge. For the first time all day, Jaxon realized that this girl was going to kill him. The crowd roared, screaming their support for Samantha as she charged in a spinning flurry of sword strikes and swinging kicks. Jaxon did his best to make himself small behind his protective disc, but each blow from the inexhaustible squirrel sent sharp pains up and down his arm muscles. With each swing his grip loosened slightly more, until finally, with one mighty kick Samantha had sent the shield flying to the ground and Jaxon tumbling onto his backside. Panic overtook Jaxon as he raised his two thin red arms in front of his face, as if they would somehow be able to shield him from the thrust of her menacing swords.

He wanted to yell, “Yield!” He wanted to scream it out as loud as he could so that she would have to stop and spare his life. He knew she wasn’t supposed to purposely kill him, but the loud supportive screams of the crowd assured him that the arena was set up for that very reason. They wanted him dead, all of them—the Florensians, the market sellers, all the citizens of Rosehaven . . . maybe even the Hoofstomps. For years, he had been nothing but trouble—a walking, talking, mixed-blooded symbol of the evil that they all lived here to avoid. Part human, part demon . . . the worst of both worlds. In the split second before his heart was pierced through, Jaxon was taken by a flood of emotion. First was anger at himself for being so hated. Next, resentment at his parents for creating him and sending him to this place. Than embarrassment at his worthlessness as a person. Finally, sorrow that his life was over before it even really began. The mixture of emotions spun inside him like a tornado wanting to rip out of his skin.

The steel of Samantha’s blade felt like a shard of ice as it plunged through his chest. The cold pain was a stark contrast to the rest of his body as Jaxon felt like his blood was burning. It was as if an inferno was traveling from his brain, down his spine, and out his extremities.

With a final rush of emotion, Jaxon let out a scream that his father could have heard all the way down in the Underworld. His extremities began to burn like he had placed them in a roaring fire, yet without the pain. He looked down. His hands were engulfed in flame, and his fingers engorged and clawed like a full-blood demon. He couldn’t look away, his mind mesmerized by the dancing flame, when suddenly his body convulsed. He closed his eyes tight as he spewed forth uncontrollable flame, like a dormant volcano waking from eons of sleep.

Exhausted, he slumped over and waited to die.

It was at that point Jaxon noticed that he had not been the only one screaming. He opened his eyes slightly, fighting to adjust to the light after having them clenched so tightly closed. Samantha Bushytail danced around in front of him. This, however, was not the dance of a victorious swordsman. It was the little seen dance of a young squirrel-kin whose tail was just lit on fire.

Jaxon couldn’t help but smile as he looked back and forth from the sword plunged shallowly into his chest to the black mound of fur rolling desperately in the sand screaming, “I yield!”

Chapter 9

The wild rover

Tyranna

Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

October
27, 1503

The world rocked back and forth beneath Tyranna’s viciously sore body as she awoke. The bed beneath her was a welcome comfort and of far better quality than she was used to back at the monastery. She could stay wrapped up in the warm blanket forever.

Except that her stomach wanted nothing more than to expel every ounce of content it had in it.

It reminded her of the time Brother Richard had convinced her that, “a little wine is good for a growing girl.” She had to admit, the initial experience had been quite interesting. She had danced with anyone and anything that would dance back. It was great until the next morning. Her sickness had convinced her that wine could wait until she was in her thirties.

She could see that she was in a small bedroom that only had a tiny round window for light. Everything around her—the floor, the bed, the cabinets, the table—was made of a light, sandy colored oak that was faded from age. The furniture was very small, like it was made for children far younger than her. There was a stack of books on the table, but she could not understand any of the writing on the bindings.

She moved to stand up, swinging her legs over the side, but as soon as her feet touched the rough, splintered wood beneath her, the entire floor jutted away sending her sprawling down. The brief moment of pain she felt as she landed on her backside coincided with a spark of clarity—she was on a boat.

Branchy wasn’t trying to drown her. He was trying to get her to . . . change. He was trying to save her . . . again.”

She smiled as she realized why Branchy had wanted her to buy fish. She needed to have their image in her mind.

Tyranna shuddered as her final memory of the mighty ent shot into her mind—his body wreathed in flame, death engulfing him in a blaze. A small tear formed, as she gave a quick sniffle.

“He died to save me,” she said to the empty room. “He was the last of his entire species and now he’s gone.”

First it was Brother Tychus and the other monks, and then Branchy. Everywhere she looked, creatures were being killed while trying to protect her. She had never felt so weak and helpless in her entire life.

Tyranna sat back down on the bed, tears pouring from her puffy, doe eyes. She didn’t care where she was. She didn’t care what she was. She just wanted it all to stop. No one deserved to get hurt because of her. She wasn’t worth dying for.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she snapped back from her despair. It was minutes at least, maybe even hours—she truly didn’t know. What she did know, however, was that sitting in this room draped in damp clothes and crying over the dead wasn’t going to help her. She decided that there would be time for sadness and grieving later, but now she needed to figure out where she was. She stood and surveyed her strange new surroundings.

A pair of dark blue woolen pants, a matching linen shirt, and white woolen socks were neatly laid out on the table next to the bed. Under it was a pair of black leather boots. Next to the bed sat a plate with some dried meats and a small piece of bread—a large horsefly making covetous rounds a few inches over it. 

She took the opportunity to change out of her mud-stained, wet clothes while she simultaneously devoured the snack. The bread was a little stale and the meat overly salty, but she was far too hungry to care.

As she dressed in the fresh linens, she noticed that her cloak was clean, as if someone had laundered it for her. She ran her hand over the white fur, the feel of its familiar softness helping calm her. It didn’t matter to her if it was magical or not, It was the one piece of her old life that she could still cling to, and that was enough for her.

As she slipped her right arm through the sleeve, there was a loud knock at the door. It made her jump as nervousness flooded back into her system. Branchy had been so scary looking and intimidating, yet he had been so wonderful toward her. Would everyone here be so kind? For that matter, was she even on the right ship? For all she knew this ship belonged to the same men that were trying to capture her—The Coalition of the Burning Heart.

Tyranna took a deep breath. She told herself that no matter what was behind that door she was going to approach it with grace and calmness. If it happened to be the men trying to kill her then she was going to take that grace and calmness and use it to aim a swift kick to one of their genitals before she ran. If it was a hideous non-human creature, she’d do her best to be polite and not gag.             

“Come in,” she said, trying hard to sound confident. She was ready to face whatever horrible disgusting creature opened the door.

The door violently swung open into the room, missing Tyranna by inches and startling her already jittery nerves. In front of her stood one of the most unique looking men she had ever laid eyes on. “You . . . You’re not hideously ugly at all!” The words came out before she could think about how rude they sounded.

“Why, thank you, young lady. Though, I must say I was certainly aware of this fact long before you showed up on my ship. I’ve been told that same thing, usually in much more eloquent ways, since I was a child. I’m Admiral Drake Brownstache. How do you do this fine morn?” The handsome gentleman gave a deep bow as he spoke.

The admiral was quite tall, well over six feet and stood with his head slightly tilted as if he were constantly posing for a portrait. His hands were stationed on his hips, nails clean and trimmed in a way she had never seen a man able to achieve. He wore simple brown leather pants, with an oversized white linen shirt tucked into them. The shirt had a low dipping v-neck, showing off his hairless and well-tanned chest. Most striking, however were three very noticeable facial features. First, Tyranna’s gaze darted to his eyes, a deep greenish blue and a near perfect match to the hue of the ocean water. Next, she moved her view from his oceanic eyes to his striking ears, which prominently protruded from his neatly brushed brown locks. Each one was long and slender, easily twice the size of a human ear, and pointed like a royal Great Dane. To Tyranna’s untrained eye, they were the only giveaway that this man was anything other than one hundred percent human. She smiled. She was in the right place.

From an aesthetic standpoint, his eyes and ears paled in comparison to his third identifiable trait, which instantly showed Tyranna where he got his name from. Sitting above his thin pink lips was the largest and most ornately crafted moustache Tyranna had ever seen. It extended to both sides of his face for at least a foot, curling up into two powerful mammoth sized tusks of hair.  In between his huge end curls and his thin, pale cheeks, three smaller curls gave the moustache further distinction, like a series of tiny little waves before a giant one crashes down. Tyranna had never once in her life cared about anyone’s facial hair, yet she couldn’t help but be impressed at this mustachioed man.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Admiral. That’s not what I meant. What I meant is . . . my name is Tyranna Wolfskin,
[17]
of Lipkos monastery.” Tyranna gave a slight return bow to show respect. “I was brought here by Sir Reginald Branchworth, but we were attacked. I’m not sure he’s well. They pummeled him with arrows of fire while he protected my escape.”

“Yes, we saw Reginald fall though the spyglass. A true shame, he was quite the noble warrior. I only wish that we had been in range so that I could have sent help, but the distance was far too great.” Brownstache shook his head back and forth with a look of deep regret.

“As for you, I am well aware of who you are. You don’t become an admiral by not knowing about who you allow to board your ship. You’re the elf-blooded shifter we’ve been sent to deliver back to Rosehaven.”

“Elf-blooded?” Tyranna repeated inquisitively.

“Now, I don’t mean that as an insult to you. Please don’t take it that way. Unlike most elves, I have no problem with mixed-bloods. I was even friends with a gnome-blooded boy when I was a little kid, at least until my grandmother on my father’s side put her foot down, that was. And when Grandmamma put her foot down you listened. The woman had gargantuan feet. She was like an elephant in a dress, she was.  But don’t worry, that was all a long time ago. People are much more accepting of that kind of thing now.”

“Wait, slow down please, sir. I’m having a little bit of trouble following. What you are saying? What ‘
kind of thing’
are you talking about?”

“Wow, they sure are right when they say mixed-bloods are slow. I’m talking about your background, dear. Humans aren’t exactly well liked in Rosehaven. Reproducing with one is extremely looked down upon by most retics.
[18]
And by the look of your ears, I’d say you’re lucky if you’re even a quarter elven. Why, they’re barely pointed at all, and they’re so small. Yes, I’m sorry, but they are truly terrible ears.”

Tyranna never knew that anyone could feel self-conscious about the size of their ears, but she did now. She could actually feel each earlobe begin to burn up with embarrassment. She considered throwing her cloak hood up over her head, but she was afraid it would just draw more attention to her newly discovered condition.

“So, what you are saying is that everyone is going to hate me in this Rosehaven place?” Tyranna couldn’t believe it. Branchy had made Rosehaven seem like such a wondrous place, yet here she was finding out that she would be an outcast forever, just because of how she looked.

“Oh! No dear, not everyone. Most of the more educated and enlightened of the city, like me, realize that humans are really no different than any other creature. I mean, perhaps a tad greedier and definitely a might bit smellier, but not really different other than that. They just happen to be on the other side of this little war.”

“War? Sir Reginald had mentioned something about a Great War. What is this war that keeps being spoken of?”

War was a very common thing throughout Europe, and she was always hearing tales of this battle or that skirmish from travelers, but never once in her life had she heard about a war between humans and non-humans.

“Listen, I’d love to answer that question, but I’m already wasting a lot of very important time ferrying you back to the island. It’s a little demeaning if I don’t say so myself, and completely out of our way. The
Wild Rover
isn’t a transport boat mind you, it’s Rosehaven’s strongest warship, and I am her greatest nautical mind.” Brownstache stopped with his head cocked toward the ceiling, as if he needed to bask in Tyranna’s impressed look before he could continue.

“Well, sir, I do apologize for being a bother to such an important man,” Tyranna replied as politely as she could. Having grown up surrounded by elderly religious men, one thing she certainly knew was how to act around people who thought they were perfect. Self-righteous might as well have been a job requirement for a monastery brother.

“Oh, don’t fret Tyranna. Sure, delivering you all the way back to Rosehaven while I could be doing important things is a complete waste of my precious time, but that is certainly not your fault. At least, it’s not all your fault. Alas, while you are a guest on
The Wild Rover
I want you to feel completely at home. I want you to be able to relax and enjoy the trip and not consider yourself a complete inconvenience. I have even seen to it myself that you’re completely comfortable by giving you the second best quarters on the ship. Don’t worry, Gnemo won’t mind. He’s a very generous young chap. Besides, he’s the first mate. It’s his job to do whatever I say, no matter how demeaning it might be. That’s called the chain of command. See, Tyranna, greatest nautical mind of all time.” The admiral pointed to his temple and tapped it several times to ensure that Tyranna understood where his thoughts came from.

Tyranna thought it was very thorough of him to inform her of where his mind was, because she was already beginning to think he might have lost it.

“That’s too kind, Admiral,” she responded gently. “I hope that I may meet this first mate of yours so that I may present my thanks to him personally.”

“Not a problem, my young cargo. He’s right here behind me. Gnemo, stop being rude and introduce yourself.” The admiral took a small step to his right to reveal a tiny person, no more than three feet tall at most, standing, quietly hidden, behind him.

“Hello,” said the small man, in a low voice. Like Tyranna had done for the captain, Gnemo bowed to her as part of his greeting. Tyranna couldn’t remember ever having been bowed to so often. It was a very nice feeling that she was sure she could get used to.

Like Brownstache, Gnemo appeared almost human, only much, much smaller. Standing next to the captain, Gnemo’s head barely reached the level of the tall elf’s waist. He wore similar attire to Brownstache, minus the pretentious plunging neckline. He was clean shaven, with a small pudgy nose and a mess of light brown hair on his head. At his crown he wore a large pointy hat, almost half as tall as he was, and nearly an identical greenish blue to Brownstache’s eyes. Perched upon his nose sat a thin piece of metal that encircled his eyes, each filled with a small piece of glass. Though she had never seen a pair in person, Tyranna had observed a portrait once where a man was wearing a pair of these objects. Brother Tychus called them “spectacles of evil.” He said they were devices that the very rich would wear to improve their eyesight. He didn’t approve of them at all, claiming that if God wanted someone to see things perfectly, then he would have given them that gift naturally. Tyranna didn’t think Gnemo’s spectacles looked evil at all, in fact she thought they were delightful in a way. They made him unique, more so even than his small stature.