The Wild Beasts of Anthony Mannis
Chapter 9

“We lived in Pandu, in back country right on the borders of Hoemba and Kamisha—that’s Forest and Ocean Zone for you babies—Papa, my mother, and me.

“Papa was a Kamishan chemosmith—but not just any chemosmith, get it—Papa was the greatest. He made armor and ceremonial swords for all the nobles of the area. Man, if you guys could have seen the armor he designed! They were legendary for their durability and beauty. The armor the Spectre Men wear now is a crappy knockoff of a design he did for the OZM during the Second Uprising. He took the principles of angular dispersion and applied it to conceptual armor; for two years the OZM armor was structurally superior to the best the Borges could make!”

“Of course,” it dawned on Philip, “your last name. Rykers. Like Rykersmith Tech. No wonder you got all worked up about that imitation peddler. I should have known.”

“Yes, yes, he was an ass. Now, my mother…my mother was the one who taught me how to fight. I told you she was the protector for Lord Yukimura, right? You would have never guessed it based on her appearance, but she could kick some serious butt. I once saw her when she was doing a seminar for the OZM—she disabled four of them without lifting a foot off the ground.

“Life really was good. We were well-known, well-respected, and well-off. Nobles would come from all the Zones to request ceremonial armor and swords. They would send their sons to apprentice, but my father would refuse them. I was his only apprentice, he would say. You know that quarterstaff I have? We made it together. Inch thick bamboo with a steel-slurry core. Hits like a sledgehammer—doesn’t matter how thick Spectre Man armor is, it’ll rattle their insides. It also twists apart at the middle—you’ve seen—into two staves. There’s no other weapon like it.” Hayley beamed with pride.

“Every once in a while, a Borges noble would come through, making a request. It was very rare, since we were deep in OZM territory and Borges had to bribe their way in. My father would always refuse them, even after The Failed Rebellion. They would be angry, sometimes very angry, but would always leave peacefully. One time a Borges tried to sic his house guard on us, and my mother broke all their knees. Word got around, and that was the last time that happened.

“When I was twelve, my father and I were in the workshop, stitching together this jacket, when a lone traveler came up the road. I’ll never forget the way he looked. His vest was striped bright red and purple and a flowing purple cape was clasped around his neck. His shoulder pads were gilded and his face was painted in the likeness of a theatre mask. He was a jester, he said, ordered by the noble of his house to act as a broker for the commissioning of a new blade.

“‘Who is your master?’ my father asked.

“‘Warden Zhao Tan,’ The Jester said, sweeping low enough for the bells in his cap to touch the ground.

“‘In that case, I will ask you to kindly leave.’

“‘I am aware that Borges noblemen have come before and been refused, but whatever price you demand, Zhao Tan will triple it.’

“‘With money unfairly levied from the people, I’m sure. I do not do work for Borges affiliates, Borges nobles, and certainly not for Cirk Malpy wardens,’ my father had said, his voice steeled with contempt.

“The Jester nodded unblinkingly, and bowed. He said to my father, ‘Long live the OZM,’ and get this: before he left, he looked me right in the eyes.” Hayley shuddered at the recollection.

“‘That is odd,’ my father had said.

“‘What is it, Papa?’

“‘He left without arguing. No one who has made the trek from Cirk has done that. They beg, they moan, they complain, they threaten. But they do not leave like that. He will be back.’

“Papa was right. That night, The Jester returned—fully armored with a creepy mask and everything. He picked the lock to our front door, hoping to come in quietly. My father was waiting for him, and their swords flashed in the firelight. My mother took me to the safe room, then turned back to fight The Jester’s henchmen that were coming in through the windows. I watched from a slit in the wall: my mother moved as I had never seen; moving from assassin to assassin breaking knees, breaking elbows, cranking necks—dangerous as fire, fluid as water, faster than ever. My father’s sword was alive, it darted between The Jester and his henchmen, painting in blood. After a while it was just the two of them, dancing the sword’s dance, surrounded by dead or dying jester goons. It went back and forth, no one gaining advantages, no one losing ground. Despite his fool’s outfit, The Jester was a formidable swordsman. His rapier would dart out, neatly countering and deflecting every attack my father made, almost effortlessly. When he was on the offensive, he attacked with a silent fury that beset my father on all eight points.

“It became apparent that my father was slowly losing the battle. Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead and his breathing became heavier. The Jester on the other hand —younger and fitter—betrayed no signs of weakness or any emotion under his mask. In a matter of seconds he would gain an irreversible upper hand.

“Recognizing this, my father roared forward in a final attempt. It is said that the man who is well trained has nothing to fear from a well-trained opponent; however he has much to fear from the untrained opponent. My father had gone berserk and came battering forward with his sword as if it were a claymore. Surprised, The Jester stumbled backwards, blocking just in time as my father nicked his mask and sliced a bell off his cap.

“‘I tire of this!’ The Jester had said, and shot a jet of fire down his sleeve at my father. While my father fell back, The Jester took a deep breath from some sort of aerator. It seemed to rejuvenate him and he began to press my father back against the wall. He feinted high then stabbed my father in the leg.

“My mother stepped forward and picked up my father’s sword. However, before any significant ground could be made, one of The Jester’s henchmen came up behind her and clubbed her on the head.

“On being deprived of another good fight, The Jester cut off the guilty man’s hand. Then, despite my hiding spot, he looked directly at me. I could feel his gaze through his mask and through the crack in the wood. That did it.

“I ran out of there, staff in hand. I knocked two of his henchmen out of the way but when I got to him,” her voice broke, “he knocked me to the floor.

“Little girl,’ he said—his voice was disgusting, ‘I will not kill your parents. Zhao Tan needs them alive. They will be held in Cirk Malpy. You may come and get them when you like. However, if you do that before you are ready, I will kill you. I will take little pleasure in it. It will be like a lamb at slaughter. Necessary; and slightly entertaining, but…unfulfilling. I require a challenge. I duel only the best. So take my advice, little girl—train. Travel. Learn styles. Learn tricks. You have potential…I will be waiting.’

“It was chilling. I could not move. I wanted to. I felt I needed to avenge my parents right then and there. But he…it felt like he controlled me. I was rooted to the ground. He…he was right.

“He threw me back in the safe-room and set fire to my home, after pulling out only my father and mother. Only the henchmen who could walk on their own made it out of the house. Fortunately for me, the safe room was made out of a fire-proof polymer; a synthetic developed by my father specifically for Mountain Zone housing. Unfortunately…it was not sound-proof. I shut my ears but I could not block out the sounds of the men who died screaming.”

Hayley shuddered as she finished her recollection. Philip adjusted his gun, unsettled but resolute.

“When did this happen.”

“Four years ago,” her eyes sparked, “the only things that survived the fire were this quarterstaff and this straw rain-jacket, which were in the saferoom with me. Everything else burned. I rose from the ashes of my home with nothing else. My father and mother are alive. The Jester is holding them—Zhao Tan is holding them—they are teasing me for the sake of sport. I will kill them.”

“So still, why? The money?” Philip asked, not unkindly. Hayley wasn’t listening. She was staring at nothing, lost in her own mind in a battle against an imaginary Jester; so he waited. She finally blinked and came back to the present.

“I’ve been traveling all over Hoemba and Kamisha studying the different fighting styles of the area. I learned how to use a spear from the Naazari. I learned how to use a trident from the Perytons. I even studied snap-wrestling with the OZM.

“Now I am traveling towards Garuda—the Desert Zone. The birthplace of the art of fighting. The birthplace of the art of war.

“I am looking for Lord Yukimura, my mother’s master. I can’t beat The Jester yet—this I know. So to Desert Zone I must go. To train. To win.”

A pause while she fidgeted.

“Do you know how much the ship fare from East Blue to Gwalior is?”

Philip shook his head. “All I know is that Gwalior is in Desert Zone.”

“It’s five hundred spikes. One way. One person.”

Philip’s eyes widened momentarily. “ So one thousand spikes would be enough for a trip to Desert Zone and back. The first day we met you—that rainy day—you said you ‘didn’t want to rob us anyway.’ You were trying to collect money for passage.”

Hayley hung her head. Tears were falling from her eyes as she wiped her nose noisily with the back of her hand. Philip didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he ignored it.

“Understandable…but inexcusable.”

He glanced at Anthony, who rolled over in his sleep. He kept his gun trained on Hayley. “You know, I was never really sure why you decided to stay around with us. It’s not like we had much in common; we met by chance more than anything. I always asked myself, what is she sticking around for? I figured you had a soft spot for two bumbling dorks, and you wanted to take care of us. But now I know better, don’t I?”

Hayley’s watery gold eyes locked with his cool brown ones. “Philip, the decision I made to turn you in was not something I had been secretly planning. It was a stupid, idiotic, knee-jerk reaction: a quick fix to something that is very important to me.”

“A quick fix? Is that all we are to you?” There was ice in his voice.

“No. A thousand times no. You two are so much more, and I can’t hate myself enough for what I did. I have been on my own for so long, rarely talking to people; when I did it would always turn into a dangerous game: I would try to get what I needed out of them before they try to rob me—or worse. It took me too long to realize what it meant to have real friends.”

“Now they know where we are, and in which direction we’re traveling. And how do we know you won’t turn on us again?”

“You can’t, because I broke that trust. The only way you can be sure is if you make sure.”

She shuffled off her jacket, opened her arms wide, and eyed the giant revolver in Philip’s hand.

“You remember what I said about pointing a gun at someone?” she asked softly.

You point a gun at someone, you’d better be willing to pull the trigger.

“Yes,” said Philip.

Hayley stopped moving. Philip gestured towards Anthony with his free hand.

“The only reason I am not going to shoot you now is because Anthony needs you. He needs you more than he knows, more than you know, or you would not have betrayed him. You will grow together, build off each other. You can feel it, can’t you? You are destined to be part of our journey. How dare you sell us out? What makes your family better than his?”

With that accusation, Hayley burst out crying again. Philip didn’t bat an eyelash. Despite his bookish demeanor, the awry glasses, and moppy hair, there was an unmistakable danger about him. His eyes were clear and cruel and betrayed a controlled anger.

“You think you alone have a noble quest. I will tell him nothing of this, but I will do what it takes to keep him safe. Even if it means killing you.”

She nodded tearfully. Philip holstered the gun and turned away. He stepped out through the broken door and went outside, his footsteps crunching in the gravel. Hayley let out a deep, stuttered breath, raw and gutted from the crying.

Anthony had slept through the whole ordeal.