Renegade Reborn (3 page)

“Can I come in?” The man asked.

“IAM help me . . . what can I do for you, Mr. Rotstone?” Ricard said, sliding a hand down his face.

“What you can do, is not take my deity’s name in vain for starters,” Mr. Rotstone said. He was a tall man, standing well over six feet, with black slicked hair, intertwined with grey, and a neatly trim beard. Everything was meticulous about his person, from his freshly pressed silken shirt tucked into an expensive, golden belt buckle, matching with his golden buckled, black pointed boots.

Isaac Rotstone took major pride in his wealth, appearance, and service in the military, and believed this was why he was given the strong nick name of, Stormstone, but unbeknownst to him, the nickname came from his potent aftershave, Cluster of the Storm, and this was why phrases such as, “Here comes the Storm,” was dropped about him.

“Name in vain? Sorry, I do not follow . . .” Ricard said, true confusion upon his features.

“IAM. You used his name in vain,” Mr. Rotstone said.

“I . . . you mean when I said, ‘IAM, help me?’” Ricard asked.

“Yes, you said it sarcastically, it is disrespectful,” Mr. Rotstone said, crossing his arms.

“Believe me, Mr. Rotstone, there was nothing sarcastic about my plea for help, now, what is the order of . . .” Ricard started.

“Those sheep filling up our castle courtyard for the past months! It’s out of control, it’s . . .” Mr. Rotstone started.

“And, it is within their rights as citizens of Oak County,” Ricard said. Mr. Rotstone gave him an evil eye.

“Rights. Hah. So, it is within their rights to dance about naked in the moonlight, and commit horrible, sexual acts, right before IAM’s eyes, out in public when they are not waving those ridiculous signs of theirs? They’ve turned this once beautiful courtyard into something disgusting and deplorable! There is no order whatsoever! I as leader of the Purist party, demand that you send in the guards to break them up and send them home!” Mr. Rotstone said.

“So they can take their chanting’s to the streets? I think not. It is better for them here. If I can put up with it, so can you,” Ricard said.

“Again, I come, representing the people of Oak County, and again, you do not act . . . it is a shame. If only the people had a man who represented their interests,” Mr. Rotstone said in a quizzical tone as he stood at ease, looking down at the protests from the window in disgust.

“You assume that all within this city share your views?” Ricard asked.

“No. Clearly, this demonstration outside proves this. Those with a minority opinion, always have the loudest voice, and like spoiled children, they will shout, stamp, and cry until they get their way!” Mr. Rotstone said.

“Isaac . . .” Ricard started.

“They don’t even know what they want. All they do is point fingers, refusing to take responsibility for their own actions. There’s no such thing as personal responsibility anymore. It’s always their parents fault, their teacher’s fault, society’s fault.” Mr. Rotstone said.

“They just want to feel safe, Isaac. These are dark times. They’re scared, frightened, and acting the only way they know how. They may be a bit naïve, but then again, perhaps we are the naïve ones?” Ricard asked. Isaac gave him a wild look.

“So, this fence you plant your ass upon. Does it hurt? Or do you like the feeling?” Mr. Rotstone said.

Ricard glared at him.

“Seems everyone’s pointing fingers, but unlike them, I know where the blame lies. It lies in our endless debates as you play and listen to both sides like a two faced puppet upon a string. You’re ex-military, Ricard. I know where your heart lies.” Mr. Rotstone said.

“It lies with the people, and it is my job to listen to both sides, and decide the best course of action.” Ricard said.

“Yes, and should you wish to keep it, maybe, oh, I don’t know, actually DO your job?” Mr. Rotstone said. To this, Ricard’s eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you, Isaac?” Ricard asked.

“Threaten? Oh, no, not at all. I’d be a fool to threaten an Elekai’ Master such as yourself. I would never leave this room alive! No, no. All I’m saying is, I know people in high places, and I know people in low places, all of which, who owe me favors . . . and all of which are unhappy.” Mr. Rotstone said.

“I think you should leave,” Ricard said.

“I think that’s a very good idea. Looking forward to seeing you at our next meeting, but, who knows . . . maybe I won’t?” Mr. Rotstone said as he walked through the door, and closed it, painfully slow.

The threat to Ricard hardly registered. Exhausted, Ricard, slumped into his chair, and looked up at the fire lit ceiling from his chandelier.

“Karm . . . I never thought I’d ever wish to have you back,” Ricard said, and then, a thought crossed his mind. He began pulling out drawer after drawer, knowing that Karm had all sorts of hiding places for his bad little habit, his, purple pleasure as he called it, and found a bottle in the bottom drawer, went to pull the cork, and suddenly, stopped himself.

No. I don’t miss you enough, to become you . . .
Ricard thought, and with a grunt of displeasure, threw the bottle out the window.

Chapter One: Gisbo’s Surrender

Gisbo Falcon stared into the bottom of his mug, as if searching for something, something he had lost, so long ago. He lifted the mug to his lips, and downed the golden, less-than hoppy, watered down liquid, and slammed the mug back down on the bar and looked at the bottom.

Nothing. But there was always a chance the next one had it.

He ordered another, and raised it up again, chugging it as if he were trying to drown himself, and in a way, he was. Once finished, he slammed the mug back down, this time, harder than before, belched loudly, and waited.

Nothing.

He was already twelve beers in on an empty stomach and still, he did not feel the alcohol’s sweet, unhinging release from his hell of a reality. He cursed, and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t even spinning, just still as an iced over pond, mocking him. His senses needed spinning, and fast, for soon, the wolves in his head would start to bark, and then, they would bite.

Gisbo promised himself he wouldn’t resort to the whiskey. Not again. Soon, the beer would kick in, his thoughts and anxiety would cease, and he could finally relax, maybe even find a nice lady for the evening. This was his routine as of late. Get drunk, avoid a fight, and then find a woman. It was the only way that kept the memories at bay. Memories that flashed like lightning, then crawled across his brain like a swarm of newly birthed, skittering and scattering spiders, their hairy little needle legs, stabbing and pricking, and . . .

He heard laughter again.

The better part of him knew it wasn’t toward him, but the fighting part of him wasn’t so easily convinced. The people, why were there so many people? He could sense every prying eye on him, could smell their stink, could hear every snort, every scraping tooth across steel silverware, every clinking mug. And that was just the start. The worst was the laughter. Every bit of it felt as if it were directed at him now, like the whole world had it out for him, like he was back in Oak County.

It was hell.

Gisbo tried to relax, tried to focus on the pitter-patter of the rain outside, and closed his eyes, but the moment he did, he saw an explosion of hot, red blood, as a blonde girl’s throat was sliced open by a two bladed sword. With a muffled, throated grunt, that was almost a scream, he snapped his eyes back open, and felt a single bead of cold sweat drip down his forehead and hang on the tip of his nose. He felt his chest grow tight, as if an elephant had decided to park his ass upon it. Panic was going to overtake him. It was going to happen . . . again . . . he would lose control of himself, then, they would come, and they would . . .

A glass mug flew over his head and burst against the wall in a spray of glass, but the bursting noise, it felt as if it were within his own head, as if it were his mind that shattered, not the mug. After a few rapid blinks to gain composure, Gisbo turned around to see where the winged mug had originated from and didn’t believe what he was seeing at first. His eyes found a group of men, every one of them were clad in dark, blue-black, piece-meal uniforms with frayed bandannas tied to their foreheads. They were cheap. They were fake, but he knew a Renegade uniform when he saw one. One of the bigger men, in the center, caught his stare, glowered at him, and thrust a sausage finger toward him.

“You like dem eyes in your head der, guy? If so, den you best turn right ‘round!” The man said in a thick, backwoods, Naforian dialect. There was something in the tone, something, that caused a switch to flip within Gisbo. It took all he could to force that switch back down, and turn back around. He hated how easily he got angry, but he had to admit, it brought back some clarity, and felt a whole lot better than being lost within his own, broken head.

Whiskey. Just a bit. He would grab a shot, and leave immediately. If he stayed any longer, there would be trouble. He raised a hand to order, then, put it back down, debating. The thing with whiskey was, once he started, he knew he wouldn’t stop until blackness took over, and it was within the blackness that his body and mouth tended to move on its own, and enemies tended to be made . . .

Gisbo reached up again, but rather than order, he fingered at the cut above his right eye that had just recently scabbed over. He had gotten that one when he awoke next to a woman on one side of the bed, and the dagger of her husband coming down toward his forehead on the other. It was his Renegade muscle memory that had saved him from an outright lobotomy, muscles he had not had to use like that in years. If he were in peak performance, no doubt he would have gotten away without a scratch, but he wasn’t, and instead, was fortunate enough to get off with a slash above his eye, and his attacker was fortunate enough to get off with a broken forearm, as well as a bonus gift of Gisbo’s week old underpants on the floor as he and his hairy white ass made their escape out the window.

He took in a deep breath, shaking his head. No. No way was he going to touch liquor and end up like that again . . .

To further reason his way out of ordering the hard stuff, he thought about the time he had visited one of the small port towns in Aquaria, and had chugged over half a bottle of cheap, house Aquarian Rum, blacked out, then awoke with each limb tied upon a fish gutting table, with four, very foul smelling sailors in a dock house glaring down at him. They explained that he and his ghost white ass, why was he always naked? Had wandered onto their docked ship and began urinating onto everyone asleep below deck, aiming for open mouths, and nostrils before moving on into the Captain’s quarters, where he passed out atop him, but not before lurching onto his brand new, Soarian Silk sheets. Fortunately, they were big drinkers themselves, being sailors and let him go with no hard feelings and a new set of clothes, clothes, he was wearing currently . . .

Was he really going to order liquor again? Gisbo felt his hand rise all on its own. Apparently he was. Just a shot, a nightcap, he told himself, but to his surprise, his voice had ordered an entire bottle, but not just any sort of bottle . . .

He had ordered an entire bottle of Flarian Firebolt Whiskey, whiskey distilled from cinnamon and a fermented mash of rye, grown from coal ridden soil that set your stomach afire, your heart pumping, and every hair on your body into a dance. It was said, that Flarian Firebolt Whiskey was created with two types of people in mind; those with Flarian blood, and those who didn’t hate themselves enough.

Another mug exploded against the wall, this time, on the other side of the room. He had to get out of here. These Renegade fakes had been coming in for the past two nights now raising hell and giving him funny looks, sensing something about him. The bartender returned with the bottle, and Gisbo, upon checking his Tarrie pouch, was alarmed to see he had only three left. Wasn’t there at least thirty there yesterday? His heart sank, as he looked from his three Tarries, to the bottle, realizing that this may be the last drink, the last escape, he would have for some time. Reluctantly, he fished out his last three Tarries, paid the man, then checked his Tarrie pouch one last time. Maybe he was mistaken . . . nope . . .

It was as empty as his hopes and dreams.

Time to go, time to move on, but where? He had tried to get odd jobs as a laborer since the rupture, but due to his tattoos, and strange, pressure, as they called it from the Elekai energies, Phoenix power, and Drakeness flowing through him, he drew too much unwanted attention, and could never stay in a place long enough to collect a paycheck before prying eyes and questions raised his anxiety, then his anger, then his fists, then finally, the brand on his forehead would glow, and they would come, the Drakelings . . . ready to do what it took to beat him down, and take him back to Drakearon like a long lost sheep.

“Never . . .” Gisbo muttered aloud, as he looked back into his empty Tarrie pouch.

He knew he had been extremely fortunate to get the money he did for selling his broken Flarian Tanto handles and Knuck-Knife to a rare weapon salesman in Blackscar. Flarian weapons were rare enough as it was, but a Flarian weapon crafted by a Soarian, known to forge the very best of steel, was practically unheard of. At first, the thrifty merchant tried to bring down the value due to the blades being snapped, but after Gisbo threatened to find another buyer, the merchant caved and gave Gisbo a small fortune for them.