Renegade Reborn (16 page)

“Such rudeness, no doubt from your father’s side, not your mother’s. Jackobi, after declining our requests to meet with you, you have forced our hand. As you know, we of Stratataris do not enter into the affairs of Thera, unless, the possibility for our involvement can tip the scale one way or the other,” Lady Seveara said. “That time is now.”

“Right, so you can come down and take the glory all for yourselves! You’re nothing but a load, all of yeh!” Morey said.

“Really? But it wasn’t a good time when Drakearon assaulted Heaven’s Shelter and took away the sky and sun from not just us, but everyone? Including you?” Jackobi asked.

“It was a natural progression. The Renegade’s beliefs do not coincide with the beliefs of Drakearon. Naturally, strife breaks out, then violence, then death. Such is how your world functions. You’re no different than Freeists or Purists in the end.” Lady Seveara said.

“Just because you got a bunch of like-minded people together and decided to float above everyone, doesn’t make you any less a part of this world,” Jackobi said.

“Is that not what you Renegades did? Started a city of like-minded individuals of varying beliefs and cultures to protect free will and defend those who are persecuted? Only interfering when everyone else before you has failed? Are we not the same? Well, no, we are not. We are not as intrusive as you and your Renegades, my dear Jackobi. It’s a shame, I was hoping you would accrue more of your mother’s genes. You are your father, through and through,” Lady Seveara said

“I kept an open mind when I trained under you. I didn’t listen to my father’s initial remarks about you, mostly, because he had a remark for everything, but now I see he was right. How can you honestly claim to know humanity when all you’re capable of is looking down on them, rather than walking among them? And . . . you know what? My words fall on deaf ears. Rolce, walk away,” Jackobi said.

“Ah, but you see, Jackobi. He must come with us. He must present his side of the argument. The tide is about to change from the time of the Phoenix, to the Dragon. Drakearon’s correct in that this is a flawed world, a flawed world that needs fixing. If everyone would come under the Dragon’s power, be of one blood, one mind, would there not be peace? Would there not be security for all? Would hunger and pain not end? The Dragon, unlike the Phoenix, offers humanity everything, everything they could ever need. Take away want, pride, emotion, attachment, and all there would be is perfect peace and harmony.” Lady Seveara said.

“What is peace when you cannot feel it? That sort of thinking, I cannot get behind. I’d rather be dead.” Rolce suddenly spoke up, there was an edge to his voice. “Anyone with the power to give you whatever you wish, can also take it all away. When everything is given, nothing is worked for. When nothing is worked for, nothing is appreciated, and when nothing is appreciated, nothing matters.”

Behind her mask, Lady Seveara smiled.

“I knew you didn’t believe what I just said, but I had to be sure. The Renegades may stand neutral in politics, but when it comes to life, they serve the Phoenix, cloak themselves in its colors, and its ideals of freedom, righteousness, and compassion. We of Stratataris go a step beyond and stand neutral between the Phoenix and the Dragon, but no longer. There will be one winner in the end. It is unavoidable. A world war is coming, just like the age of Warlords in ancient times, but this war won’t be fought over land, titles, or resources. No, this war has the possibility to change the rules and laws of life itself, and when such a war comes, even neutrals will have to take up a side.” Lady Seveara said, pausing a moment, trying to choose her next words carefully. “We’ve already met with Drakearon.”

“Blasphemy!” Morey cried.

“Morey, you’re not helping,” Douglas said.

“Yer damned right I’m not! I don’t plan too! You want proof, Rolce? It’s staring ya right in the face, lad! Who else you know wears a golden mask over their pretty little face, eh? Go ‘head, ask Lady Giraffe why she covers up her mug!” Morey said. Rolce looked up at her, right in the eyes, and for the first time, Lady Seveara’s eyes wavered uncomfortably. It took a long moment, followed by a deep breath before she answered.

“I am blessed with unnatural, physical attraction. Men . . . and even some women, who look upon me, quiver and cannot think straight. My features, they are a distraction, so, I wear this mask. I’ve had far too many broken hearts, and broken lives on account of my beauty. I shall have no more.” Lady Seveara said. Morey’s lips stretched into a satisfied smile.

“Sound familiar there, Rolcey boy? You go up there, and you’re but a spectacle, entertainment for these . . . spoiled snobs. If you cater to them, you only fill their ego even more. They want a debate? Nonsense. They already have more in common with Drakearon than you, lad. I feel they’ve already made their decision. They’re standing with the Dragon. You ask me? It’s a trap. You’re a Sybil, Rolcey. Everyone knows it now. That makes you valuable, but what everyone doesn’t know, is this.” Morey said, giving Lady Seveara a look of disgust. “Who came up with the mask idea first, eh? Drakearon? Or Lady witch here?”

“Two separate incidents not in common,” Lady Seveara snapped.

“Right, right, and I’m just a social drinker!” Morey said, spitting. Lady Seveara ignored him and turned back to Rolce.

“And now that we’ve heard Drakearon’s side, we wish to hear yours. We will hear your reason, and we will reason ourselves on what is the best course for humanity to take and join with whatever side represents the greater good. We especially wanted you, Rolce, not just because of your Sybil lineage, but because we know you are best friends with the current Man-Phoenix, who on all reports, seems to be . . . quite the imbecile . . .

You on the other hand are not. I wish to hear why the Phoenix would choose such a host as deplorable as Gisbo Falcon, and what you Renegades plan to do now that Drakearon’s arrived. Everything you are, everything you stand for, will be wholly represented in a debate. Should you choose to come along, you will face off against one of Drakearon’s Master Debaters, in witness of all Stratataris, and,” Lady Seveara started then stopped as she heard a loud chuckle. Everyone turned to see Phil, his hand over his mouth, doing his best not to erupt into laughter. Douglas let out a sigh.

“Son, she said Master Debater not . . .” Douglas started.

“Oh! Well now! That makes much better sense!” Phil said. “Please, carry on, I thought she said . . .”

“Can it, Philly! We all know what you thought she said! Forgive the lad, he’s a little slow . . .” Morry said, elbowing Phil in the side.

“Oy! Speak fer yerself you ol’ sod! Didn’t know it twas a crime to be confused! I means can you imagine it? Two blokes jus’ standin’ in front of a crowd waxin der carrots? Dat’s jus’ . . . OW!” Phil said as he got another elbow in his ribs.

“If Flarian stereotypes could walk . . .” Lady Seveara said.

“Ignore him. Please, continue,” Rolce said.

“Of course. It has been said that actions speak louder than words. If that’s true, then a closed fist speaks unspeakable volumes. A Soarian debate, Rolce, is not done with words, but with action. Words can be twisted. Words are circumstantial, relative, and can be taken out of context, but a fight between two Elekai’ Warriors? There can be no room for misinterpretation. When your life is on the line, your every swing, every block, every strike, is powered by what you hold true. We, as a whole, will hear you speak to one another with a battle, and we, as a city, will decide our course of action. Should you choose not to come, you forfeit the debate, and we will cast our lot with the Dragon.

To sum it up, you win, we will become the greatest of allies. You lose, and you will gain an unrelenting enemy. Choose,” Lady Seveara said.

“Rolce . . .” Jackobi started, but Rolce raised his hand.

“It seems, I don’t have a choice in this matter. I cannot excuse an opportunity to gain allies for our cause. It’s only a matter of time before Drakearon gains enough followers for another army. People are flocking to him everyday, and should the Soarians join with him . . . it all ends. I will do anything for my freedom, anything for the sun again. I’ve made up my mind. I’m coming with you,” Rolce said.

“Rolce, you don’t know these people like I do,” Jackobi said. “Please, think about it,”

“There’s nothing to think about. Enemies? Or Friends? Damned if I don’t, but rewarded if I do. However, that being said, I have a question for you,” Rolce said.

“Yes?” Lady Seveara said.

“You mention Drakearon’s Master Debater,” Rolce started.

Phil giggled, only this time to receive a crack across his jaw, felling him to the ground, but only making him laugh all the more.

“Fine, debater then. Who is it?” Rolce asked.

“You know him as Sybil Purah Brennan, your former teacher,” Lady Seveara said. Rolce took in a deep breath and held it.

“I figured as much, but Purah never taught me much, save for one thing.” Rolce said, his eyes suddenly taking on a hostile look, so much so, even Lady Seveara got a chill. “He taught me how to kill someone’s mother, how to turn one’s father into a monster, and how to scar a boy’s life, forever. I will not back down from this challenge, no way, no how. I will face him, and at the end, you all will cheer my name, and you will join our side,” Rolce said, stretching out his big hand. Lady Seveara stared at it for a moment, then, took it, and pumped it hard.

“Impressive. Such confidence is rare for one as young as you,” Lady Seveara said.

“When you’re best friends with Gisbo Falcon, certain things tend to rub off on you.” Rolce said.

“Ain’t dat da truth! Gizzy’s me cousin!” Phil exclaimed jumping back up to his feet. Lady Seveara stared at Phil, then turned back to Rolce.

“This one here . . . is Gisbo’s cousin?” Lady Seveara asked, her eyes squinted in disgust.

“Um, yeah,” Rolce said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I suddenly feel I’ve made a huge error in judgment . . .” Lady Seveara said, closing her eyes.

Malik Strife stood before a dark tent nestled in the farthest corner of Blackscar away from the hustle and bustle of the busy bazaar and its unruly patrons. He had followed the Goat Man’s instructions to the letter. If he was to find Gisbo, and face him, he had to first learn where he had come from, before he could move on. He had spent his life in a scattered mindset, haunted by the Goat Man, hearing whispers of things both true, and untrue, dark things, horrible things, and now, now he was about to learn the cold, hard truth. With his recent purchase in hand, he walked into the black tent, closed the flap, and was surrounded by perfect darkness, for only in total darkness, could dark truths be revealed.

Malik felt something scamper across his boot, but ignored it, and pulled out the small vial that he had paid quite a small fortune for with his fight winnings . . . The heart of a Wilkenthrock, a beast within Naforia whom the Druids revered on a level of divinity. Every so often, a Wilkenthrock wanders away from the Druid’s protection and is slain by poachers, and its heart when dried, and ground up into powder, serves as a catalyst for energy and life beyond any scientist could understand, so much so, it is said to bring so much clarity to one’s life that it is capable of curing mental illness. When the heart is consumed by snorting the person is incapacitated for several days, and revealed everything their eyes have ever witnessed from birth. Some, not able to accept the truths of their lives, never wake up again, but those who do, are reborn a transcendent being.

Malik was ready for such a risk. He had to know who he was and why, why this Goat Man, a man that nobody else seemed to see, chose to play with his sanity the way a cat plays with a ball of yarn, unrolling it, slicing at it, and spinning it in directions it was never designed to go. Malik’s head pounded at the thought of it. The things the Goat Man whispered in the night . . . if the unraveling was this painful, then winding it back up . . .

Malik didn’t allow his thought to finish, halting it by sheer willpower as he slumped down onto the dirt, got as comfortable as he could, popped the cork off the vial, held one nostril over it, snorted up the powder, and waited.

The effect was practically immediate. Just like that, it was as if he were suddenly trapped behind the eyes of a much younger version of himself, forced to watch, go with the motions, unable to take control . . .

“Who am I? What, what happened to me?” Malik asked, sitting up in his bed. He went to scratch at his head, only to feel a bandage that stretched all about it. Lamik Strife, bent down, and looked the boy of no more than four, right in the eyes.

“That is a question you will have to find for yourself. Only through pain, only through hardship, can you discover who you really are. Only through adversity, is your strength revealed. As for your second question, you took a fall off Rambler’s point. Hit your head quite hard,” Lamik said.

“Rambler’s . . . point?” Malik asked.

“Yes. Now, look at me boy. Do you know who I am?” Lamik asked.

“No,” Malik said.

“Yes you do, you just don’t remember, but you will, in time. A fall from Rambler’s point is known to do that. Many drunkards have fallen to their death. You’re fortunate.” Lamik said.

“Who are you?” Malik asked.

“I am Lamik Strife, Chieftain to the Strifes, the greatest warriors upon Thera, and you, you are Malik Strife, my son.” Lamik said.