Renegade Reborn (10 page)

“Yes, we know. It’s been three years. Three years, of hiding,” Bosto said.

“Of planning! Of preparing!” Manon said.

“Call it what you will, it’s still cowardice!” Bosto snapped, but Manon ignored him.

“Any word from Malik?” Manon asked. With a grave face, Lamik took a few moments to answer.

“My son is gone. He’s his own man now with his own path to follow whatever that may be. I cannot leash him anymore.” Lamik said. There was quiet among them. Lamik rubbed at his black eye, a gift from his departed son.

“But, this is no time for dwelling on what was. It’s time to dwell on what is. Drakearon is back. His forces are crippled from that mysterious explosion, but more forces flock to him and his city everyday, and before long, he will be back at full strength. Rumor has it that even the Soarians, not the mountain ones, are descending from the sky. They sense the oncoming change in the world.” Lamik said.

“Those Soarians? The neutrals? The ones nobody has heard from since, well, forever?” Bosto asked.

“So say the rumors,” Lamik said.

“What could they want?” Manon pondered aloud.

“None of that matters. What matters now is what we do, and how we handle this opportunity. We’re all that’s left to stand against Drakearon and his forces. We need to rebuild the Strife’s from the ground up. We need new ideas from this new generation. We need new blood, young blood, hence why I have called you all here, you, our last remaining elders of a time past.” Lamik started.

“Please, don’t call us elders. May as well call as elderly,” Manon said, inhaling a smoke, then, coughing hoarsely.

“Speak for yourself,” Bosto said.

“Boys, come on in,” Lamik said.

Upon command, the door to their meeting place was open and in walked four boys, all of them Flarian. Quil Albright lead the way, throwing back his long hair as Stave Dasto, Randy Rasgard, and Cyrus Carson followed behind.

“Come this way boys, stand in a line and,” Lamik started.

“Is it true? Has Malik gone?” Stave asked. Lamik breathed out a heavy sigh, looked back at his brother and friend, then turned to face the young Strife.

“What you have heard is true. Malik has left and from what I gathered, he is not coming back,” Lamik said, his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” Quil asked.

“Vengeance has invaded his mind. He is lost to us. Fixated on killing someone who, by all accounts and reports, is dead already. Do not dwell on him. Do not think about him. He has abandoned us in our darkest hour, set his personal insecurities above the needs of the world as a whole, and that, that is not what a Strife does. He has chosen disorder over order, chaos over righteousness, and,” Lamik stopped, not wanting to go further. “Now, why don’t we . . .”

“Hearing you talk about righteousness is like hearing a pig speak of cleanliness,” A deep, haughty voice suddenly spoke.

“Who goes there?” Bosto demanded, trying to determine the location of the voice, when out of nowhere, there was a burst of black.

Ranto Narroway appeared before them at the opposite end of the table as his father.

In an instant, all weapons were drawn and ignited, and an instant later, black tendrils shot out from all directions, and everyone but Ranto was on the floor, writhing in their own guilt, their own pain, helpless to amount a counter attack.

“Now that we got that out of the way, I have something to say to all of you, but first, I have something to say to your Chieftain,” Ranto said. He moved his way across the room, his weight making the floorboards whine under every step. He hovered over Lamik, then, bent down on one knee.

“I don’t know what you want, but you need to . . .” Lamik started, until a giant palm flew forward and covered his mouth and face.

“No. It’s time for you to be silent, and listen. I have but two words to share with you . . .” Ranto said, leaning close and getting his lips right up against Lamik’s ear. The Strife Chieftain felt Ranto’s breath prickle his ear hairs as he said the two words, two words, that he had feared hearing his whole life . . .

“I remember . . .” Ranto said.

Lamik’s eyes went wide as the Drakeness charged through his system, and a memory, long repressed, was freed and he was helpless to stop it.

“Thank you for coming, Chieftain. Please, sit down. We must talk, and this, this will go no further than this room. I promise you.” Mrs. Dodard said, but Lamik remained standing, eying her cautiously.

“What is this all about, Mrs. Dodard? Your message sounded, urgent, as if it was life or death, and yet, I see no danger. I have much to attend to, and would rather you . . .” Lamik started.

“It’s about your son,” Mrs. Dodard said.

“What about him?” Lamik asked.

“Sir, Chieftain, I don’t mean to pry, but, compared to the other children, mainly the boys, he’s been, acting . . . rather strange . . .”

“Strange, how?” Lamik asked, not liking her tone.

“Well, most boys around four, when their motor skills are more under control, decide it’s time to start testing them, and playing with other boys. The boys in their free time, hit each other, wrestle one another, and test one another’s strengths as boys are want to do, while the girls, like the good little girls they are, do arts and crafts, play with dolls, play house, pick flowers, and do each other’s hair . . . preparing for their role as women, so they may one day, submit to their husbands, and run the home. Roles between men and women are important. We both know and believe this, my Chieftain.” Mrs. Dodard said.

“Mrs. Dodard. I have very little time to spare in my position, please, tell me what this is all about.” Lamik said, sighing and folding his arms.

“Fine, yes, yes of course.” Mrs. Dodard said. Before continuing, she took a deep sigh and prepared her next words carefully. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but I worry for you son. He’s, he’s quite unlike the other boys and well, I worry for his future . . . sexuality.”

“His, sexuality? What madness is this? What are you . . .” Lamik started.

“Ever since he arrived here, your son, he does not want to play with the other boys. Rather, he plays with the girls. He does their hair, plays with their dolls, focuses on their studies, draws rather amazing pictures for his age, and . . .” Mrs. Dodard started.

“Where is my son?” Lamik asked.

“Why, just out back. It’s the children’s recess, he’s, my, my Chieftain? Where are you going?” Mrs. Dodard asked.

The Strife Chieftain ignored her and rounded the corner of the small red schoolhouse. There he saw a group of a twenty or something children playing and just as the teacher described, everything was present. Some girls were in a circle, playing duck, duck, goose, some were picking flowers, and others were forming dolls out of bales of hay while the boys were doing what boys do given a little freedom. They were yelling, screaming, running about, slamming into one another, and tumbling across the ground, fighting, wrestling, and giving hell to their clothes, clothes their mother’s would have no pleasure in washing later.

Lamik’s eyes scanned the area for his son, when suddenly, he found him, or rather, his son found him.

“Dad! Daddy! Over here! Look, Karen, that’s my dad! My dad’s chief of this whole place! Come here, daddy! Come here!” The boy said. Lamik walked over and was horrified by what he saw. There he was, Ranto, his son, his own blood, not growing in strength with the other boys, but rather, growing daisies out of his head.

Lamik felt a hot, white rage rising in him. He was standing over him now, and saw not just flowers in his son’s hair, but also blush on his cheeks, and red lipstick upon his mouth. Ranto was sitting in a small circle with three other girls sipping imaginary earl grey from a toy tea set.

“Here, Daddy, I picked this for you,” Ranto said, pulling up a daisy out of his hair, and holding it up for him, his wrist limp. Lamik couldn’t speak. His rising fury kept his teeth in a grind.

All he could do was stare at the limp wrist, and act . . .

With a quick snap, he grabbed his son’s outstretched forearm, hoisted him clear off the ground, and literally dragged the boy out of the play area.

“Daddy, Daddy stop! Ow! Dad, you’re hurting me! You’re hurting me, Daddy! Ow! OW!” Ranto pleaded, but Lamik pulled him along and when he was sure he was alone, he took that limp wrist, twisted it, and pulled until it snapped like a dried bundle of twigs. Ranto screamed a scream of pain and terror as tears flooded down his eyes, ruining his make-up, but Lamik only squeezed the broken bones together tighter.

“Never again. If I ever, EVER, catch you playing with little girls, or raising a limp wrist toward me again, I’ll break the other one. Am I clear?” Lamik asked, his eyes wide, the corners bloodshot.

Ranto only whimpered, tears running down his face.

“Stop crying,” Lamik said.

Ranto didn’t.

“I SAID STOP CRYING!” Lamik roared as he smacked his son with a backhand across the cheek. Ranto screamed louder and Lamik hit him again, and again, harder each time until not a peep escaped Ranto’s lips.

“That’s better. Now, go clean that ridiculousness off your face, and head back to your teacher. Tell her you fell, and she’ll patch you up,” Lamik said, and without another word, he got up and walked away, not once looking back.

Ranto watched him go and stared down at his throbbing, mangled wrist. He tried to cry, but found he couldn’t. It was as if some deep part of him had callused over with every strike from his father, and his tear ducts had become as barren as the Flarian desert.

Ranto Narroway never wept again.

“My time with Drakearon, as you can see, it has, freed some things. I remember, I remember everything. The Strife Renegade peace treaty? It wasn’t a treaty at all. It was an exchange. Go on . . . Father . . . tell them, tell everyone here how you traded away your only son for a new one. Tell them how the all-powerful Chieftain Lamik Strife could not have a little FAGGOT for a son!” Ranto shouted.

All eyes were on Lamik now, and the Chieftain took a long moment before answering. When he did, he couldn’t look up. He spoke to the ground.

“I tried, I tried so hard to comprehend why such a good servant of IAM as I, was cursed with an evil like you. Before you, I never questioned my strength, ever, and then, I couldn’t stop thinking if there was something wrong with me, or something wrong with my wife? And then it occurred to me. All of it was a test. That’s all you were to me a test from IAM. A test, which I found a loophole, a test I passed, and with it, I not only brought myself peace, but peace to a war that would have undoubtedly, killed us all in the end. I have no regrets on how I handled you. I wanted a new son, a strong son, a new heir, and in exchange for my cease attack, Narroway obliged, offering up his own, for peace. Look at you, look at you now! How dare you inject yourself with the same evil we fight against! You’re Maraspawn . . .” Lamik said, spitting on Ranto’s boots.

“Your blind faith is making you unable to see the truth in front of your eyes. Elekai’ is limited, even when paired with peak human condition. I reached it, only to be defeated by . . . by that bottom feeding dog . . . his Drakeness, that’s how he defeated me . . . when we fought then, we didn’t fight as equals. Now, we are. Gisbo Falcon, I know what he is. Within him, is the power to match Drakearon. Do you understand now?” Ranto asked.

Lamik said nothing.

“Well, with feeling, comes understanding.” Ranto said, as he backhanded his father, the same way he had done to him, years ago.

“Chaos. Did you feel it? I am its offspring, I see the world through its eyes, and what I see, is a world that lacks order, a world where uncertainty can lash out at any time. If I am a child of chaos, you, are its servant. You made me who I am. The only way to stop chaos is to crush it, overwhelmingly, unmercifully, with unrelenting order, and I, I will bring that order to this world, even if I need to play the villain for a while. The end, the vision I have for this world, will justify the means,” Ranto said.

“A favorite phrase of the sociopath, you, ACK!” Lamik started, but Ranto halted his sentence by dropping his foot atop the back of his neck.

“With the Dragon’s blood inside me, I now have the same ability that brought Drakearon his power, but I will not kill Flarians. No, I’m going for the ultimate prize. I am going to kill a specific Flarian, Gisbo Falcon. I will take from him his Phoenix powers, and with them, I will then hunt down your adoptive son. Oh, yes. I know all about him too, I know he’s the Man-Dragon, and when I kill him, both the Phoenix and Dragon powers will howl within me, and Drakearon will be but ash in the breeze, along with the Drakeness, and finally, I will bring the age of order, the sort of order this world not only needs, but deserves!” Ranto said.

There was silence among them.

“But not without help. To do this, I will need an army . . . your army, Father. Your offer as Strife Chieftain still stands, does it not? Any may challenge you for your title? I will not take your leadership through deceptive means. I will crush you, in front of everyone. Now, stand up, and face me,” Ranto said.

Lamik finally found the courage to look up into the eyes of his son, eyes that were twisted, and so far gone, he no longer saw himself in them.