Renegade Rising (The Renegade Series) Page 2

  Clang! Clang! Clang! The school bell sounded. A large smile stretched across his face as he shut the book with a slap upon hearing the lovely sound, the sound of freedom!

  “Finally I can get away from this hellhole! Smell ya later, butt knockers! WAHOOO!” Gisbo cheered aloud.

  “Check it out, dog boy even howls. Funny,” said a tall, handsome boy with slicked hair. A small group of girls giggled and followed the handsome boy outside. Gisbo tightened his fist, ready to follow, until a stern voice halted him.

  “Going somewhere, boy?” Mr. Foogal asked with an arrogant, prissy air to his voice. He was a portly man with thick-rimmed glasses and a circular bald spot on the top of his head. Ever since Gisbo had first mentioned his own name, Mr. Foogal had taken an immediate dislike to him and made a point to show it to the rest of the class. In his mind, anyone who would think of naming a child the Flarian term for dog must have come from an uncivilized, brutish bloodline.

  Why was he required to teach such worthless potential? It was only wasted effort, effort that could instead be used to impress and train the privileged children, such as Thomson Ricard, which would then give him favor in the eyes of their parents and would hopefully lead to the increase of his social standings. Maybe then he could even have a future career in the castle with all the other politicians and bigwigs. Why, with a position like that, he would easily be able to afford the silken purple robe hanging in Mack’s tailor shop, it would be . . .

  ACHOO!

  His thoughts were broken as Gisbo let loose with a massive sneeze. Mr. Foogal closed his eyes and felt warm spittle wash across his face in a grisly mist.

  “Oh, didn’t see you standing there, Foogal,” Gisbo sneered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Gisbo then looked up at him and smiled. Seeing that smile and feeling Gisbo’s gaze upon him made the bald patch atop Mr. Foogal’s head instantly grow hot. The bald spot, which was dead center atop his head, was a frequent target for Gisbo, who called him “Mr. Scrotum Head” whenever given the chance.

  Mr. Foogal gritted his teeth. For ten years, these back and forth insults had occurred. The boy was wild and represented a generation that Warlord Karm had finally put a stop to in his reign of power. Thanks to him, the warrior culture was now dead. The educated now controlled the muscle with political leashes. As was proper. Mr. Foogal couldn’t imagine such brutish types actually making important decisions. IAM forbid! And this boy, this scoundrel, rather than focus on his studies like the rest of the children, seemed to want to bring the times back whether he knew it or not. But that wasn’t the only reason Mr. Foogal despised him. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something in the boy’s eyes that made him shiver. At the same time, that same something filled him with envy. Like a jealous child, he saw something in the boy that he himself as a man did not have.

  Tenacity.

  As much as he was respected in his fields of expertise among his peers, he always felt less than a man when standing in the presence of one of Karm’s Elekai’ warriors. It wasn’t in the way the fighters carried themselves; no, there was something in the eyes and these eyes belonged to the boy as well. In his own way, he had tried to overcompensate for this feeling of weakness by continually mocking the boy in front of the class. What he didn’t expect however, was that the boy would throw it right back, undeterred, and thus, the ten year war of words had ensued. Gisbo was sixteen now and done with schooling under him. It was about time he let him have it and end things for good.

  “I really can’t blame them for picking on you,” Mr. Foogal said. Gisbo’s eyes narrowed and looked straight at him. Again, Mr. Foogal felt the top of his head burning, just waiting for the name calling to begin.

  “This going somewhere, scrotum head? Or can’t I get you outta my ass for at least one summer?” Gisbo asked. The vein in Mr. Foogal’s forehead pulsed dangerously. He stood in silence and waited for the last student to leave the classroom. No sooner had a girl stepped one foot upon the steps outside than Mr. Foogal slammed the door with tremendous force and rebounded upon Gisbo with ten years of pent up frustration behind him.

  “Listen, you foul mouthed little crap! I passed you just so I could get you out of MY ass for a summer! Don’t you forget that. Don’t you ever, EVER forget that! You are the stupidest thing to ever walk through my classroom! You’ll amount to nothing but a ditch digger in this life! You know that?” Mr. Foogal hissed in his ear, the vein in his forehead looking as if it would burst. Gisbo only clenched his fist.

  “Oh, what’s this? You wish to hit me? That’s how you solve all your problems, isn’t it, boy? Just punch them away? Well, go ahead! You’re sixteen now, you’ll go to prison, so you better it make it good. I’ll take a hit just to know an animal like you will go right where he belongs, his cage!” Mr. Foogal hissed. It had finally happened. Ten years and it had finally happened. Mr. Foogal lost it. He grabbed Gisbo by both shoulders and pushed him so hard that the boy fell right off his feet. In disbelief of his own actions, Mr. Foogal first looked down at Gisbo, and then at his trembling hands.

  “You . . . you like that, you little crap? Come on, get up, right here, give me a good one! Punch your way into prison!” Mr. Foogal challenged, pointing to his chin.

  Gisbo coughed once, got up slowly and shook himself off. He than snapped a gaze upward and looked Mr. Foogal square in the eyes.

  There it is again, that damned look! What is behind those eyes that makes me feel so, so, Mr. Foogal thought.

  Inferior floated to the top of his mind.

  It was then Gisbo gritted his teeth and took a bold step forward. Mr. Foogal’s eyes flashed with surprise and he found himself taking a nervous step backward right into a desk. He held up his hands in defense, feeling as if this moment wasn’t real, as if he were dreaming, when suddenly . . .

  “OH GIZZZZZY!!!” a voice bellowed from behind the schoolhouse. Upon hearing the voice, a voice he hated much more than his teacher’s, Gisbo growled and stormed out of the schoolhouse without a glance back. Mr. Foogal let out a huge, shaky sigh of relief and he found the courage to shout out a few last words.

  “You’ll get it this time! You’ve bit off more then you can chew now!” Mr. Foogal shrieked, laughing hysterically at his own clever pun. He mentally patted himself on the back, feeling good as he rose up to his full height and took a walk over to his desk and collapsed into a chair.

  “You’ll get it this time, boy. The wolves are gonna get ya!” Mr. Foogal said, smiling to himself. “And I’m not telling a soul!”

  The sky was heavy and gray. It seemed to swell, looking as if it would burst into rain at the slightest prick. Even so, Gisbo marched on behind the schoolhouse, through the bushes and past the fallen pine tree. His long, dark brown, nearly black, hair fluttered out and behind his tattered bandana. He was mad and when he was mad, his hazel eyes flared open like a bull’s.

  I’ll kill ‘em this time, I’ll kill ‘em all . . . Gisbo thought.

  He came upon the open field as quickly as every time before. An ominous feeling of déjà vu swept over him as he glanced around, spying familiar faces. These familiar faces, however, he was only used to seeing on their own in a place like this, but now, they were all here, all ten of them, and together their faces morphed into an unholy collage of misplaced superiority and cruelty.

  The Black Wolf Pack, as they were properly known, was Oak County’s pride and joy. They were the regional champs at a sport known as “clash,” which was played throughout Thera. Their black handkerchiefs fluttered in the breeze under their stuck up noses and shark smiles.

  Gisbo recalled that there was a good reason for him being here, but with so much hot rage smoldering through his mind like a lava flow he couldn’t quite remember the specifics or why he had volunteered to face them all at once in the first place.

  “Gizzzy!” the ringleader taunted. Gisbo cringed at the tone in which his name was being said. “What? You don’t like your name, Gizzy? Well, I could call you by your last name, but mummy
and daddy didn’t want to share it with you . . . didn’t want anything to do with you! I can understand, what with an idiot like you for a son,” sneered Thomson Ricard, son of Karm’s renowned General Ricard, and leader of the Black Wolf Pack.

  Gisbo said nothing. He only tossed aside his school bag and began to crack his knuckles and neck.

  “Wow, your big fat mouth got you into this mess and now you got nothing to say?” Thomson asked, stunned.

  Gisbo surveyed his competition. He took a moment to relish in the bruises and black eyes that he himself had inflicted upon Thomson’s band of savage wolves when he got them alone, all except for Thomson’s face. It was as clean as a fat man’s dinner plate. There wasn’t even a visible scratch. Today, Gisbo meant to fix that.

  “Well . . . that’s a frightening look,” Thomson said, as cool as a winter breeze. “I would almost think you wish to fight. Look around, dumbass! If you fight all of us, you may not walk again for some time and come to think of it . . .” Thomson mocked, cocking his head upward as if remembering something. “ . . . that would make it impossible for you to try out for Elekai’ training tomorrow. What a shame. That’s your big dream, isn’t it? Become an Elekai’ warrior? Cute. Well, let me be the one to burst your bubble there, Gizzy. When it comes to Elekai’, lineage is everything and you, buddy, amount to jack squat. Me, on the other hand, well, my dad’s General Ricard! I practically have it in the bag! So, let me tell you something he always says, something you should remember. Some were made to do great things, like me. Others were made to serve those who do great things, like you. You can’t fight destiny, Gizzy. We are who we were meant to be,” Thomson sneered. On cue, his cronies cackled like a pack of hyenas, impressed by their leader’s dagger-like tongue. Gisbo continued to stand in silence.

  “Hmph, what a stupid mutt! He’s so scared he can’t even respond to me, Heff,” continued Thomson. “Heff?”

  Thomson turned as Heff continued picking his nose in the deepest of concentration, smiling to himself with greed. Thomson replied with a swift backhand to the side of Heff’s head. Gisbo couldn’t help but laugh despite the seriousness of the situation. Seeing this enraged Thomson all the more.

  “You hear something funny, Gizzy? A dog like you wouldn’t last in a pissing contest!” Thomson jibed with an arrogant assurance.

  Gisbo took a few threatening steps forward as another voice sounded behind him.

  “Hey, Thomson, I’ve got his bag!” yelled Rowley as he began to dump its contents onto the dusty ground. He picked up a large storybook, looked at the cover with a scoff and chucked it deep into the forest.

  “Say goodbye to your wittle faiwytales, loser, it’s time you got a dose of reality,” snickered Rowley.

  Gisbo let fly an abundance of expletives as he watched one of his most prized possessions fly into the dark abyss of trees. He then turned and stared at Rowley with two crazed eyes. Suddenly realizing he was alone with Gisbo, Rowley retreated back to the safety of the Black Wolf Pack in a nervous sweat.

  “So, mutt, we gonna fight or what? If we do, I better tell you my dad’s first rule of combat since you won’t be hearing it tomorrow. Rule number one: Never challenge your superiors when faced with impossible odds,” hissed Tomson. Gisbo snapped his focus back to Tomson and cracked an evil smile.

  “That last part’s not gonna work for me,” Gisbo said.

  In an instant, the silence broke at the sound of Gisbo’s battle cry as he charged straight for the son of Ricard. Thomson raised his forearms in defense as Gisbo reared his right fist back to swing. The distance rapidly decreased between the two fighters. Please, what kind of idiot reveals his attack from such a distance? Oh yeah, Gisbo would, Thomson thought, chuckling to himself. He changed his stance once more, readying for Gisbo’s attack.

  Gisbo reached attack range. He swung with a fierce right hook, missing his target by half a foot as Thomson reared backward out of the way. Thomson began to lean back up with a smug look on his face when he felt the sharp pain in his gut that took his breath away. Gisbo had faked the punch and instead plunged his shoulder into Thomson’s gut. The general’s son gasped for air as he hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Gisbo sat atop Thomson’s stomach and began decorating Thomson’s face with striking blows before his cohorts could join the struggle.

  Gisbo fell into a crazed laughing fit as he began ripping up grass-ridden dirt clods and shoving them into Tomson’s gaping mouth, giving him dirt instead of air. It was then Gisbo realized hands were upon him, big hands, and his new opponent had succeeded in lifting him off Thomson. Out of impulse, Gisbo plowed his grimy fingers into the eyes of his attacker. It was Heff, Thomson’s largest crony. Gisbo had never been fond of him and vice versa. They had had many scrapes and there never was a true winner. Gisbo meant to fix that too.

  The big boy screamed in pain, dropped Gisbo and clawed frantically at his throbbing eyes. Gisbo landed on his back, but did not hesitate. Upon landing, he leaned backward and kicked out with both heels into Heff’s gut. Heff let go of his eyes and instead wrapped his arms around his belly before falling backward into two of his rushing comrades.

  Gisbo rolled to his feet and ducked, dodging a shot from one of the Wolves who had joined the fray. While ducking, Gisbo eyed a vulnerable area and let loose with a straight right punch. The victim fell, squealing like a pig and holding his groin.

  WHAM! A surprise right hook connected to the back of Gisbo’s skull, sending his vision into a white flash and felling him to the ground. Gisbo’s vision was blurry, but his instinct and experience in dirty schoolyard brawls served him well. He managed to get on his back and caught the boy’s foot in his hand, stopping all attempts of it digging into his face, only to have another boy put him into a full nelson. Other boys quickly jumped in, claiming each of Gisbo’s limbs as their own as they held him down to the ground, face up.

  Gisbo struggled and thrashed with all the strength that he could muster, but it was useless. It may have taken five boys to hold him down, but regardless, he was now caught. It was then that the one boy Gisbo never wanted standing over him was back on his feet. Thomson stood, breathing hard. Blood, bruises and dirt covered his haughty features. Without saying a word, Thomson reached down and grabbed Gisbo by the throat. Thomson’s mouth quivered and his eyes bulged from his skull. Gisbo glared at him, snorting like a captured animal.

  “Look what you did to me! Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll kill you, I’LL KILL YOU! I’ll rip out your freakin’ eyes, I’ll . . . “

  Gisbo didn’t let him continue into another haughty diatribe. They may have held down all his limbs, but he still had control of his noggin and he used it by throwing his forehead straight into Thomson’s nose. There was a crunch, followed by a burst of blood. The son of Ricard reeled back, let go of Gisbo and clutched his nose with both hands as blood poured from it. In a fit of rage, he dove forward in the same manner Gisbo had done earlier to him. He sat upon Gisbo’s stomach and pummeled him with blow after blow, letting his own nose bleed freely over Gisbo like a runny faucet.

  “Come on, trash! Let’s hear your smart talk now! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Thomson yelled, continuing his onslaught on Gisbo’s face. The rest of the group added their fair share as well as they kicked and punched at his body, chuckling with every strike. This continued for several long minutes until the boys seemed to have had their fill and Gisbo had stopped moving. Heff stood, out of breath, with a worried expression across his face.

  “Man, we went too far, Thomson! What will we do if someone finds out? We could get kicked off the clash team for all of us teaming up on one kid!” Heff exclaimed. Thomson threw him a withering look.

  “Please, this isn’t just any kid. Everyone hates him! Hell, my dog gets better treatment then he ever will. All we have to say is that we were on our daily run through the woods and this lowlife demanded my wallet and proceeded to attack me; nobody would believe his word over mine. Especially if he’s dead.” Thomson replied with an assure
d smile. “Come on, let’s get out of here, it stinks.”

  Thomson and the wolf pack turned to walk away. When they neared the clearing, one of the boys turned around for one last look and froze in place. Noticing this, Thomson turned as well and didn’t believe what he saw.

  Gisbo stood, hunched over, breathing hard. His knees wobbled like a drunk, but standing he was, with his fists still clenched. Thomson was stupefied. How could someone still be afoot after receiving such a beating?

  “HEY . . . ya . . . you . . . call that a beating!?” Gisbo yelled through choked breaths. “I’m not through yet! I came here for one bastard and I got ten! I’m . . . I’m calling you out, Thomson!” Gisbo screamed, pointing a shaky finger at Thomson. For a moment, the finger scared him, but then he realized his wolf pack was with him. This brought his courage roaring back.

  "Hmph . . . you had your chance and you failed. You have no fighting style and you’re not worthy of any more of my time. Besides . . . I have a family to return to," Thomson said and with that, he turned and walked away in silent victory. The pack followed.

  Gisbo had had insults aimed at him his whole life and brushed off most of them. He had outgrown the nights of crying himself to sleep, but there were times when these poisonous arrows were unavoidable. That last remark hurt and it hurt badly. Thomson managed to land the final knockout blow after all. All strength and spirit left Gisbo and he felt himself slump to the ground with his head between his knees. His rage quickly turned to deep sorrow as he sat in silence, watching his enemy walk away with his head held high. At this moment, the swollen clouds finally burst. It began to rain. Gisbo cursed to himself and, after a few ill attempts, managed to rise to his feet to begin the long walk home. With every step, the clouds seemed to grow blacker and the rain became an outright downpour.