The Wild Beasts of Anthony Mannis

The Metalheads are the SSI squad dedicated to protecting the aristocracy of the Borges. Currently the squad consists of the children Nestor, Hier, and Elvex; tier-three invokers controlled by Elite Spectre Officer Doleo. Based out of the Borges’ capital Cirk Malpy, the Metalhead motto is “Superbia et Ira.”

- Information Available to Borges Citizens, Pamphlet VIII

With a terrifying bellow the Nightmare swung its sickle-swords, removing both heads of the wyrm from the body. It stepped on the treant as if it were nothing more than a cockroach.

Anthony winced as the invocations withered and melted away, pain lancing through his forehead. That hurt, but I’m not out yet. These sightseers have got me amped.

He took a deep breath and invoked, feeling energy leave his body and making him light-headed. Talons and paws hit the ground, and broad silver-tipped eagle’s wings stretched out, forty feet from tip to tip. The colossal gryphon screeched, true as the steel it was made of and hungry for battle.

Philip cast a wary eye. “Be careful Anthony. He is under the influence of Borgesian drugs. He is stronger than you.”

Anthony grit his teeth. Bigger and stronger doesn’t matter, Hayley’s voice sang in his head, everything is a battle, or a waste of time.

“Munroe!” he shouted across the battlefield. My brother, I’ve missed you so much. “I don’t want to fight you!” I want to take you home.

The pale boy stared back at him. It was Munroe, to be sure, but…different. The fine crop of messy black Mannis hair had been shaven off, revealing the membranous skin of his head. His cheeks were gaunt, and the outline of bone could be seen on his skull and jaw. And his eyes…his black eyes had sunk even more than Anthony could remember, the reflective mirrors that would tease with mystery were now empty voids. The black Borges uniform made his back and shoulders stiff, as if he were being prepped to slide into a coffin. A slim collar was fastened around his thin, veiny neck; on it little red and green lights flashed. He pursed his purple lips, then spoke.

“Fight?”

His voice was shrill and thin, not raucous and rowdy like it had been back in Mint Village. Anthony felt his insides become hollow. What have they done to you? Do they feed you? Are you eating enough?

“This will not be a fight,” he quavered, gesturing softly around him with an emaciated arm. Hayley was surrounded by fire, The Jester’s rapier at her throat. Philip was pinned down behind a tree, Raffick and the PSOs moving closer and closer. And Anthony’s gryphon stood only to the shoulder of Munroe’s Nightmare.

“This will be a slaughter.”

The Nightmare brought both sickles down on the gryphon’s head, who covered up with its wings. Sparks flew as steel scraped on steel. A hoofed kick sent the gryphon reeling backward. Anthony grunted in pain.

“Munroe!” he screamed, his gryphon staggering, “You don’t have to do this!”

“I know that,” the pale boy replied, “The thing is, my brother, I can…”

The Nightmare hugged the gryphon around its neck, pulling its head back by its beak to expose its throat.

“…And there is nothing you can do to prevent it.”

In that moment, Anthony realized that he was weaker.

All his boasting, all the bravado, every day that they had slogged towards the citadel, every day that he had told his friends that Cirk Malpy was the right direction, every day that he had told them to trust him because he was the strongest, that he was humble enough to learn strategy from Hayley, that it didn’t matter that he lost rumbles because he had been caught on a bad day or they got lucky or were cheating it was fine, he was still the strongest—it all came crashing down. He didn’t have any more excuses. He didn’t have any more lies to tell himself.

And now his brother could kill him.

#

“I fought them,” Munroe said, “when they came for us. You hid. You coward. You weakling. You useless wretch. You let Ma get taken and I will strike your ragged body from this forest for what you let happen to her.”

“Munroe, you don’t need to do this,” Anthony pleaded. “Don’t you get it? The Borges are the ones to blame. They are the ones who took Ma. They are the ones who did this to you. They are using you to destroy our family!”

“You lie!” he screamed, “They are the ones who gave me this power. The power to defeat you unequivocally. The power to find Ma and get her back.”

Anthony stopped, confused. Find Ma? But they were the ones who kidnapped her.

“He’s right, freak,” Raffick shouted, “we don’t have your mother. You’re fighting a pointless battle. Join us and we’ll find her together. We can make you strong. Strong like your brother, named Abaddon.”

Anthony’s head was reeling, the sightseers bashing the inside of his head. If the Borges don’t have her, who does? Something’s not right. These guys aren’t telling me everything.

“Yield.” Munroe said.

“Never.”

“Then I will convince you, brother.” Munroe made a gesture, and the Nightmare raised its sickle for the coup de grace.

#

Though he had no guns, no gauntlets, and was bruised and battered, Raffick wanted to laugh, he felt so triumphant. He tossed his baton from hand to hand. He was only a few feet away from the disheveled bookworm of a boy.

“Get back.”

Raffick did laugh.

“Comply, kid, before I snap you in half. I know you are out of ammo.”

Philip pushed up his glasses, squared his feet, and put his fists up in a boxing position.

“That is just pitiful,” Raffick smiled, “but suit yourself.”

The Trichor would have my head for tossing the most decorated SSI back into the hands of a disappointment, Tan’s voice echoed in his head.

He raised his baton. A foot materialized in front of him, crashed into his chest, and sent him reeling backwards. What the hell?

A Tzolkhan warrior rose out of seemingly thin air. He was painted in the greens and browns of the Oaktown countryside.

“Ten Faces.” Philip said in awe.

There was a shrill war cry, and Huskar landed with two feet on Raffick’s back. Pushing off with a flip, he threw a spear at the Borges officer, which Raffick knocked aside with his baton. Before he could orient himself, a smokescreen exploded in front of him. Galvarino came flying out, and Raffick was barely able to turn aside the long knife and throw the warrior to the ground.

“Ghost Hands!” the warrior shouted, rolling away. She licked the blood off her blade.

Raffick swore as he clutched his arm, blood seeping through his fingers as he watched the big warrior with scarred arms approach. He grasped for his sidearm, cursed when it wasn’t there. Must have fallen from the holster when the natives assaulted me. A giant of a Tzolkhan warrior loomed in front of him, a battleaxe in each scarred arm.

“You seem familiar.” Raffick’s one visible eye narrowed.

“You took my son.” Ikoa thundered.

“I recruit a lot of sons. You are going to have to remind me which one was yours.”

“Away, warriors,” Ikoa bellowed to the others, “he is mine.”

“It is your funeral, tribesman,” Raffick smiled.

“My name is Ikoa, and I bring The Beautiful War. You will not forget me again.”

He roared and charged Raffick, who ducked the twin axe-blades and swung out with his baton in return. It caught Ikoa on his stomach but the great warrior did not flinch, instead countering with a dual downward slice. The axes caught Raffick across the back, slashing deep cuts in his armor.

#

A giant white tiger with silvery stripes roared and leapt from the shadows of the forest, its jaws latching onto the Nightmare’s execution arm. Compared to the monstrous colossus, it was a housecat.

“Wild Moon!” Anthony murmured.

Other colossus began pouring out of the forest; a giant gorilla, an elephant, a plant elemental, a six-legged black cat, and numerous rock golems and treants. Lautara and her warriors stood at the edge of the forest, whooping and shooting arrows at the PSOs.

“The children of the forest,” Philip said, watching Raffick’s men run for cover.

At the same time, the gates to Oaktown flew open, and blue-clad men roared out. I’ve seen those uniforms before, but where? Anthony thought. Philip beat him to the answer.

“Long live the OZM!” he shouted excitedly, his glasses falling askew as he thrust his fist into the air.

“Long live the OZM!” the men shouted back, guns firing at the Borges officers.

The Tzolkhan colossus barely stood to the Nightmare’s knees, but they were numerous and brought Munroe’s monster crashing to the ground. The gryphon screeched its thanks and took to the skies. The Tzolkhan beasts pinned the Nightmare to the ground and the gryphon landed heavily on its chest to tear it apart in a Promethian way.

Violence cannot drive out violence, Anthony suddenly remembered his mother’s favorite saying, a clear mind will long for peace.

“No,” Munroe heaved, eyes rolling, “No, no, no. It was not supposed to go this way! I am the powerful one. I am stronger. No, no, no!” With every no screamed he summoned a command poltergeist and sent it shrieking towards Anthony, who cut each down with the centaur.

“Come with me, Munroe,” he pleaded, “come home. Just us two. Let’s find Ma together.”

“Ma?” Munroe spat, “don’t you dare speak of Ma to me. Traitor. Coward. Freak.”

#

Marceau grimaced. He was forced to lift his sword away from Hayley’s neck to defend himself from Tzolkhan arrows. He could hear the OZM rifle fire behind him. He sighed—eventually he would be caught between the two forces. A tactical error on the officer’s part, placing us directly between the city and the forest. I may be The Jester, but he is the fool.

“Well, little girl,” he said in his ever-lazy voice, “it appears we must dance another time. It has been an interesting day.”

He peered at Munroe and Anthony. “A very interesting day.”

He pushed a button on his wrist and there was a whirring of engines as a sweeper landed nearby, outside of the fires. A dueling pistol slipped out of his sleeve as Hayley propped herself up on one stave.

“Ah-ah,” he tutted, shooting her in the stomach, smiling when she gasped. “No following.”

He stepped insouciant into the flames, beelining for the sweeper.

#

Raffick was fuming. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his men being driven back. Warden Tan will have my stripes…if I ever make it back to Borges Command. His wounded arm was throbbing to the point where he could barely lift it. This Ikoa is a fine fighter, yet if I had my revolver, this duel would be done. He set the charge on a DT-frag and began counting down in his head.

“Come on, tribesman,” he growled at the advancing warrior, “let’s see what manner of man tree-hugging breeds.”

He braced himself for death so thoroughly that when he saw the wall of flame erupt between him and Ikoa, his first thought was, So you get there that quickly, do you?

“Grab Abaddon and the other children, will you?” droned a familiar hateful voice. It was coming from above him. Raffick looked up, and The Jester stared at him from the sweeper expectantly. “Sharply, now. I didn’t lay this napalm down so you could diddle yourself. And get rid of that grenade, jaggo.”

Raffick turned, visibly seething through his cracked visor.

“Do not use that word in my presence or it will be your death.”

Marceau laughed. Raffick knew that he had no choice but to listen, now that his chance for martyrdom had passed. And to return without Abaddon…that would be dishonorable. He ran to where the invoker brothers were battling.

“Count your blessings,” he addressed Anthony, throwing him the grenade which now glowed a faint purple, “you are using them rather quickly.”

Anthony was forced to roll away, the blast catching his centaur and disintegrating it. When he got back to his feet, Munroe, Raffick, and the Nosferat were gone.

#

Anthony watched the OZM smother out the flames and the Tzolkhan walk down from the forest edge. He was tired from the fight, but felt cleansed—as if he had survived some sort of trial by fire.

His anxieties came rushing back, his heart sinking under the crush of lead weights when he saw Hayley crumpled on the ground.

Hayley. Why isn’t she moving. His mind hurt to think about it.

She’s dead, a voice in his head said.

No, she isn’t.

Yes, she is. She got shot by The Jester. You heard it.

She can’t be dead. Not her. Not Hayley.

Of course she can be dead. She is only human. Humans are weak.

Weak.

Weak.

“Hayley!” Philip cried out, running to the girl’s side. She was clutching her stomach, breath ragged. He knelt, not sure what to do, his hands hovered inches from her. Her eyes fluttered open and she gave a thin smile. “Hi there,” she said softly.

“You’re alive,” he said, with shining eyes. Then in confusion, “How are you alive?”

Lautara strode in. “Stand back, Philip.”

She zipped open Hayley’s straw jacket, revealing a frayed cotton shirt and a pale waist, upon which was a purpling bruise.

“No blood,” Lautara was surprised, “where is your wound? I saw the clown shoot you.”

Hayley breathed heavily. “Jacket.”

Lautara felt around in the straw until her fingers came upon the bullet. It was misshapen, as if it had been squashed with a hammer. Philip frowned.

“There is no way that straw jacket blocked a bullet.”

Hayley winked at him, then winced at the effort. “Dragon’s Scale.”

Lautara snorted. “Colossus there may be, but there are no such things as dragons.”

“That’s not what she meant,” Philip exclaimed as it dawned on him. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. “Rykersmith Dragon’s Scale. It’s the common name for a rate-sensitive, impact-dampening silicon-carbide laminate. Of course!”

“Of course,” Anthony said glibly.

“It’s very expensive material, very laborious to make, very hard to come by. Yet it is light, breathable, and formidably strong. Who would have thought all bundled up in this ugly moldy jacket was top of the line bulletproof armor!”

“Thanks…I think.” Hayley squinted.

Philip ran his hands over the contours of the armor excitedly, feeling the expertly woven mesh. Hayley cleared her throat tersely.

“Ah, sorry,” Philip blushed, “quite the…protection.”

She glared at him.

“Dawn is coming.” Lautara interrupted.

Anthony stood to watch the sun rise. The dark blue had turned a lighter shade, and then a light purple and red. Many of the Tzolkhan warriors and OZM militiamen turned east to watch the sun rise.

“It’s the most beautiful dawn I’ve ever seen,” Hayley said breathlessly, though the breathlessness was more from the injury.

“Anthony!” cried a familiar voice, “Anthony Mannis! Philip Delacey!”

They turned. “Darius?”

It was indeed the brawny soldier from Mint Village, his beard even thicker and longer (and greyer) than they last remembered. Grinning under his mop of hair, he met them underneath the cherry trees and swept them up in a bearhug, spinning them in a circle before setting them back down.

Anthony was nearly crying; he was so happy. “Darius, how?”

“It’s a long story, lad. One I’m happy to tell you over a hot breakfast.”

“Did you see Munroe just now?”

Darius frowned, “I did. I remember that boy way back when. He was powerful sure, but nowhere near as powerful as what I saw here today. Borges must have doped him up. Come to think of it, ya were givin’ him what for yourself, Anthony…”

“I’ll stand and bang with the best of the Borges,” Anthony grinned, but his smile disappeared as he remembered something. “Munroe said Ma is missing.”

“Yep,” Darius said, “it’s true…kind of. Ya mother is alive, well, and the big bad Borges have no idea where she is.”

Philip perked at the news. “What? I assumed she would be in Cirk Malpy under Borges lock and key. It surprised me when I heard that they had lost her.”

Darius smirked. “I’ll assume you never caught the news update. After the Borges raid on Mint Village, the convoy of captives was…” he grinned at his fellow OZM, “hijacked by Forest Zone terrorists.” They laughed heartily.

Anthony’s heart leapt. “So where’s Ma?”

“She’s in Ocean Zone,” he said quickly. “We got a lot to talk about. I swear, I woulda brought her with me, but I didn’t know ya would be here! I’ll take y’all to her, I promise.

“We’re gonna get some breakfast in ya first. I know this place that serves the best shepherd’s pie…well besides your ma, y’know…Say, y’alright kiddo?”

Anthony was sweating and trembling, his hands shaking violently.

“You don’t look so good, buddy.” Philip worried.

“My head hurts,” Anthony said. Cherry blossoms fluttered around his face. He collapsed on the ground.