Get… up!
Two words rang through the quiet serenity of darkness. No light, no sound, nothing. It echoed and faded away through the seemingly endless void like a broken record.
Stand your ground.
A full sentence pierced the vacuum. Each word weighed heavily like stones sinking into an ocean pulling him with them. He sank deeper attempting to grab hold of something, anything within reach.
Fight.
Another called out to him in the obscurity. Louder than the others. Like a slow rolling wave, hissing, crackling, sounds of a crowd, cheering and clapping. A name called out. His name.
“Sicras! Sicras!”
Spots of faded light twinkled in the dark, leaving glimpses of vague images that felt familiar. Light as a feather, he floated, flapping his arms to maintain balance. An ocean of pitch black with sparkling stars that grew bigger and bigger, forming into one bright light like a vast tunnel.
Rows of oblique, blurred silhouettes lined wooden benches in a circle. They cheered and stomped. A floating mouth of nothing but lips and teeth, laughed.
Like a large stone hit him on his back, Sciras collapsed face first onto the ground. Pain shot through his body like every nerve ending caught fire. Silhouettes morphed into different races. The hiss of the crowd grew louder and a snap back to reality,
Hot sand seared his face and he laid stiff as a board, unable to move.
“Had enough, Worm?”
Morphed from the disembodied mouth a man kneeled down over him. Sunlight glistened off his smooth skin and toned muscle. He continued to laugh, raising his arm to get a rise out of the spectators.
Sciras rolled over on his back, letting the high sun beat down on him. A strong scent of suntan oil and sweat filled his nostrils. Clouds moved in slow motion, making shapes of recognizable animals and objects.
Stand your ground, Sciras. Get up and fight! You are a Wardan.
Hysterical giggling boiled inside of him and finally it burst. He swung his right arm over his eyes to block out the sun. His former master's words resonated with him, unable to forget his teachings.
Blood pumped through his veins in sync with his beating heart. His hands itched for skin on skin contact. He closed his eyes and composed himself, ready to give the man his answer.
“No. I’m just getting started.”
He pounded his fists together and used the momentum of his legs to swing him back on his feet. Dirt clung to his sweaty back and the hot ground kissed his bare feet as his toes dug deeper into the soft dirt. Blood dripped from his nose and the bridge turned black and blue.
His opponent chuckled. “I knocked your ass out and you are talking shit?”
Covered in bruises, Sciras squared up to his opponent, bending his elbows. A piece of wrap hung loose from his forearm. He gripped it with his teeth to tighten his left wrist, wiped the blood from his nose, and pointed at the enemy.
Any more punches like that and I'll be taking a dirt nap for good.
Sciras cracked his neck back and forth. “I was testing the power behind your punches. Good to know that they are not as strong as I feared.”
Without warning, the man shouted and aggressively charged towards him. Under the loud cheering from the crowd, the ground quaked. While the crowd cheered, Sciras closed his eyes and reached into the void. Vibrations from the crowd were the loudest and the easiest to isolate. Next, the natural frequency from the planet, that would be simple to drown out. Only the man’s movements remained. The slightest movement resulted in the tiniest of vibrations. He could use that to predict the man’s next move.
Cheers dragged out, and the time between the man’s steps increased. A wave pulsed off his fist as it traveled towards Sicras’s face. At the last second, he skillfully dodged. The muscled man stumbled forward, leaving an opportunity for Sciras to kick him square in the back.
The man stumbled forward and screamed in frustration. “That’s quite a kick you have, little man. You won’t get a second.”
Sicras inhaled deeply, dancing back and forth with his fist up, defending his face, waiting for his opponent to strike. A hybrid of powers he never truly mastered would not last long. Before the power took a toll on his body, he needed to end the fight quickly.
His opponent charged at him again. Sciras hopped to the left, twirled with a swift kick to the man’s back. The man attacked back with heavy punches, but he quickly maneuvered around them. By this time, the muscled man wavered, his breath quickened, gasping for air.
Sciras hopped on one foot, then the other, taunting the man. “Are you out of breath? We just started having fun.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
The men circled around the colosseum keeping each other at a respectable distance. Both opponents were hesitant to throw the first punch, creating thick tension. The crowd loved every minute.
Sicras’s opponent made the first move. Sicras put weight down on his left leg to dodge. A sharp pain shot through his shin straight to his lower back. He became paralyzed and an easy target for the hurling punch that came straight for him.
****
Ice melted in an oblong metal tub while bloody bandages draped over the side soaking in the rising water. Small traces of red fluid dripped to the floor from a pile of glass vials. Nearby speakers blasted a broadcast of a fight that had the crowd stoked. The thumping from their stomps came muffled from the ceiling. Cold air flowed into the locker room from an upper vent, turning it into a morgue.
Sicras awoke, gasping for air. He leaned forward off a cold steel table. His heartbeat thumped like a jackrabbit. The fight replayed in his mind over and over. His left eye socket stung, but not as much as his pride. He turned his head and gazed into a nearby mirror that hung from a support pillar. A broken nose and his left eye had turned back and swollen shut.
How long have I been out?
Across from Sicras, an aging bald man sat tinkering with something at a table. Blood stained the man's overalls. Sciras recognized the man, Vator Dolet. An old acquaintance of his. One would even call them family.
Vator dabbled in fringe science that mixed magic and scientific insight. After leaving the team that invented the first ARC prototype, he settled down, keeping his name out of the spotlight. He took Sciras in when he lost everything, raised him like a son.
“It happened again, didn’t it?” Sicras asked.
Clean bandages wrapped around his injured leg. He wiggled his toes, relieved that his leg hadn’t broken. Last time he tried using his hybrid form, he almost tore off his arm.
“You’re lucky it was only a fracture.” The man spun his chair to face Sicras. “It took all the potions I had on me to stop you from hemorrhaging. You can’t go in half-cocked like that, your body can’t take it.”
Okeer had a no magic policy, not even healing spells to save the critically injured. The fact Vator smuggled in healing potions amazed him.
“I take it you watched the fight?”
They have been friends a long time and nothing got past Vator. He knew what Sciras had planned.
“I never miss a fight.” Vator’s smile faded, putting his hand on Sciras's uninjured leg. “You need to stop punishing yourself, Sicras. You are going to get yourself killed.”
He needed to feel something, anything. He wanted to be alive again. Sicras stole and cheated. Hells, he even killed when asked. Let alone the amount of drugs and drinks he’s ingested. Even the fighting, the one thing he enjoys, lost its meaning.
Sicras shifted and sat on the edge of the table, dangling his legs.
“Gods, you sound like Momi.”
Vator slammed his fist on the table, causing the contents that laid on them to jump an inch. He closed his eyes to compose himself. Sciras shifted his eyes toward the ground, avoiding eye contact. Vator had every right to be upset.
Vator exhaled and calmed himself. “Maybe because we care about you.”
“The world would be better off with one less shifter.”
With a half cocked smile, Vator gently slapped his leg a few times, ending the conversation. He grabbed an engraved bronze brace with tanned leather straps from the table. The object strapped above his knee and ran the length of his shin where Vator made sure they were tight, keeping the fractured bone in place.
“It’s temporary until your leg heals.”
Sicras slid off the table and tested out his brace. He put his full weight on his leg and a dull ache grew with more intensity around the injury. He eased off and shifted the weight to his other leg.
Still better than crutches.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Thanks Vator.”
“Don’t mention it, kid.”
****
Okeer, the jewel of the western continent. Known for its lush water and aird temperature, many come here for vacation or pilgrimage to the plethora of temples that line her cobblestone streets.
On the outskirts of the city gates remained the slums. In the middle erected the colosseum full of laughter and cheering. Once out of one fighting arena one would find themselves in the market. Different races yelled and screamed over themselves to try and get the most customers to buy their things.
Afternoon grew to evening as Sicras weaved in and out of people, buying overpriced goods from shady merchants. He bumped into the occasional person, but slipped away unnoticed. A produce vendor turned his back to his stall to help a customer and Sciras swiped an apple from them and ate it as he strolled into The Rotten Opossum Bar and Grill.
A run down bar with a faulty neon sign outside that reads Sum Bar and Grill. Someone clever spray painted an L between the S and U so it read Slum Bar and Grill during the day.
Not your typical run-of-the-mill tavern for the faint of heart. A haven for the criminally wanted and a headache for the lawfully good. Local guards knew their place and stayed away, and for good reason. They didn't want to tango with Sala Berrydust.
Those who know the Gnome know to not cross her path, unless they want to end up disappearing. Her own Gnome spy network throughout the city keeps her updated on the local gossip. Sciras worked for her from time to time for a few collect calls that required a certain flare. The more he worked with her, the more he understood her dark past. He would rather stay on her good side.
“Sciras!” Sala greeted him on a stool in front of a large chalkboard. “I watched your fight. I bet a lot of money on you.”
The chalkboard ran the size of the wall and had a table drawn from today’s fights. His fight had multiple bets all in Sala’s name. Next to the amount, someone had drawn Sciras hanging from a tree.
She put way too much faith in me. That is what I get for talking ‘a big game’.
Sciras wrangled up a fake smile to greet her. “Well, that was your first mistake. Never bet on me. Double or nothing on the next fight.”
Sala hopped down off the stool and sprinted toward him, poking him with her finger.
“You are going to pay me for every. Last. Gold. I lost. You hear me?”
Sciras waved her off and entered deeper into the bar to sit at his favorite booth. Dim lights hung above the booth in order to give those who wished privacy. Many contracts and sensitive documents passed hands here.
Dwarves in the back corner cheered their new companion for winning a fight. Humans and Florens sat around a middle table, deep into a card game. Sala went behind the bar and served drinks, complaining about losing gold to anyone who would listen.
Sciras patiently waited at his table for a waiter to come by and take his order. He picked this booth because of a certain waiter that would serve this section. He twiddled his thumbs in anticipation.
“Sir, what would you like?”
The bags under her eyes caught Sciras by surprise. She couldn't be more than nineteen. Her voice sounded like sandpaper running across metal.
Is this girl okay?
“Where is…?”
The girl rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Momi? She came in here, looking whiter than a ghost and Sala told her off. Your order, sir?”
“Uh… an ale.”
I hate the bitter taste of ale, why did I order that?
The girl sighed again. “Any particular kind, sir?”
“Surprise me.”
With an exaggerated sigh, she left. Sciras put his elbows on the table and cradled his head.
Loud laughter filled the tavern, making Sciras jump. A couple of Dwarfs sat around at a middle table playing cards. They were clearly a few drinks in. Music played at the piano at the front of the bar by a Gnome. Sala called it happy hour where she would mark drinks half off.
Moments later, his ale arrived, and he sipped it for a while, taking in the atmosphere. He downed it and ordered another one. Then another one. He continued doing it until his table filled with empty mugs.
“Fucin Momi.”
He slammed the empty mug on the table and flicked it across the table. It slid until it collided with the others, making a loud, clunking noise. He took notice of the other waiters watching him.
It’s okay, I hate myself too.
One waiter stopped by the table, looked at the pile of mugs and back at Sciras. “Sir, Sala told me to tell you that your drinks are double. You sure you have enough coin for… all that?”
Sciras looked up at her and when he opened his mouth to respond, the tavern’s ambient noise dropped. He looked back to the entrance of the tavern and noticed three guards, clad in the royal army’s colors, had entered the tavern. They talked to Sala, who, understandably, showed her frustration about the barge in from The Night Watch.
A cut above the local guards who patrolled the slums. These were handpicked by the King himself to keep order in his city.
One guard pointed in Sciras’s direction. The waiter whistled and left his side. The tavern had its fair share of shady deals but never the royal guard showing up to apprehend one criminal.
Inhibited just added on to his confusion. The guards walked closer, but Sala stopped them from entering any further. Sciras stumbled out of his booth knocking the mugs off the table. He staggered to the front, catching himself on nearby tables.
“Wha u wan wif me, offaceer?”
The two guards in the back snickered. The one in the front gripped his sword with a lion’s head on its hilt. “Do you know a girl by the name of Momi?”
“Ah hells, Sciras. What did you do?” Sala asked.
Sciras lifted his arm and pointed at the guard. “Ya I now Momi. That bicsh stoo me up. Had a plan all sssset out for our date and she sick and doesn even tell me. Her boitoy.”
Sala glanced at Sciras, dumbfounded.
“Sciras under the order of the King. You are under arrest for kidnapping his daughter, our Lady Momi.”
An alibi. He had to have one.
The two guards in the back stepped forward with handcuffs and wrapped Sciras’s arms around his back and cuffed him. He didn’t resist the arrest. One last ditch effort he looked to Sala for help. She turned her back to him and walked behind the bar without saying a word.
The guards shoved him out of the tavern.
Cold air crept through the empty market streets as the sun set. Easy enough to escort a prisoner across town without a fuss. The castle sat in the other direction and that bothered Sciras.
“Hey, wait-”
A guard smacked Sciras on the back of his head and shoved forward. Understood, no talking.
Pale moonlight shone on the temple's sharp corners made of obsidian rock. Midnight approached and the large clock hands crossed causing a bell to ring. Not many people go in and out of the temple during the day, causing it to have a reputation of a cult hideout. Sciras, however, knew the exact purpose of the temple. The Order of the Wicked Shadow, a recently reformed Wardan order.
Upon their arrival two heavy oak doors opened. A beam of light from the moon shined from the ceiling. Inside, several armed men who were clad in black and brown armor, stood around the moonbeam in the center of the chamber. They had two sets of swords on their backs. One long made of steel while the other shorter and made of silver. Pews lined the walls leaving plenty of room.
One guard shoved Sciras forward. “I brought you your man. Now pay up.”
“Yes, yes. You fellas always love your gold.” One man, who wore an eye patch over his right eye with the orders sigil, dropped a bag of gold in the guard’s hand and waved them off.
The guards left, slamming the oak doors with an echo. Sciras left still handcuffed, kneeling in front of the intimidating presence of these men.
The one who waved the guards away turned his attention to Sciras. A streak of gray stood out on his peppered, slicked back hair. A nasty diagonal scar on his right eye pulsed with a ghostly green glow.
“Sicras Tavrot. We’ve been watching you for some time now. Your self destructive behavior was no concern to us until you royally fucked up.”
Sicras’s eyes darted around the circle. Sweat ran down his forehead and the palms of his hand. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
The man with the eye patch moved closer to Sicras, bending down to his eye level.
“You stuck your pecker where it didn’t belong. You know the rules, Sicras. Especially in your order.”
“Fuck off, Nax.”
Nax grabbed Sicras’s face, squeezing his cheeks and forcing him to look toward the circle.
A woman, bound in the same manner as him, glared at Sicras with teary eyes. “Sicras!”
“Momi? What are…” Sciras stopped and snapped his head toward Nax. “What have you done to her?”
“We didn’t do anything, Sicras. We are an order of the shadows that hunt the undead, not the living.”
“Then why is she tied up?”
Sciras attempted to rush to her aid, but Nax had other plans and pushed him down by the shoulders.
“I don’t think you understand. You are a former member of the Order of Lycans, are you not?”
Sicras clenched his jaw holding back every nasty word he could possibly throw at him.
“What does that have to do with…” And then it hit him. “No, that's not possible. Momi, when did you start feeling sick?”
“I haven't been feeling well The past few days. I woke up today and was so hungry. The hunger was sickening, and I couldn't stop myself. I ate a live chicken from the neighbor’s yard.”
Sciras gazed up at the moon through the hole in the ceiling. A waxing gibbous, the phase before a full moon. His face softened when he locked eyes with Nax again.
Nax bellowed, followed by the others.
“Ah, so the man finally realizes his mistake.”
“…I didn’t bite her.”
Tears rolled down Momis cheeks. “Sicras, what’s going on?”
Sciras’s eyes widened, and he lost the ability to speak. He stared at Momi, who hadn’t the slightest clue what happened to her. He wanted to embrace her, tell her things will be okay. How could he have been so stupid?
“You did have sexual relations with this woman… did you not?” asked Nax.
“I did but...”
It sickened him to the core to give this curse to someone else. He took steps to prevent this thing from ever happening. No one could help her. When he first transitioned he had help from his master. Gone, all of them. Only old moldy books remained in his order's temple.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Oh, Gods.”
I'm going to have to kill her.
This curse is his to bear alone.
Unable to keep their straight face any longer, the men giggled. Sciras blinked, confused by what had transpired. He looked around at the others, laughing as they dispersed from the circle. One man cut Momi loose and brought a plate of raw fish and other meats which she happily devoured.
“It’s not the end of the world, Sciras.” Nax unlocked his cuffs and pulled him up by the back of his shirt.
“What just happened?”
“Just having a spot of fun at your expense. Things have been quiet of late regarding spirits and ghouls.”
“That wasn’t funny, Nax.”
“Someone had to get you out of that sad boy shit you’ve been on.”
“What are we going to do with her?”
“Teach her. We’re not killers, Sciras. This is how our respective orders grow. You were bitten by a foul beast and we were touched by foul necromancy.”
“How do I teach something I never finished?”
“Restart the Order of Lycans, as we have with ours. Learn the old ways and teach her. There will always be more Lycans out there and they will need a leader.”
“I’ll do it for her.”
“There is one more thing.” Nax handed him a scroll sealed in wax with the orders symbol. “I’ve heard you’ve been looking for the group who killed your order. My scouts found something interesting in Black Hollow that might help you in your search.”
Sciras’s hand shook as he took the scroll. After all these years of searching and self loathing, answers. He opened it and quickly closed it. The same symbol that they burned on the walls of his temple. The Obsidian order. He squeezed the scroll in his hand. Momi, who had been cheerfully scarfing her food down, waved at him and it calmed him down..
“Do you mind watching her while I take care of this?”
“Of course, It’s what brothers do. We are Wardens, after all.”