Renegade Rising (The Renegade Series) Read Free

lose,
It is not how you fight but how you choose…
- Vadid the Valiant – Warlord
     
    Gisbo sat at the back corner of the schoolhouse reading the familiar lines of the old poem. He had memorized the poem years ago, but he still loved to read it, especially when he was angry and especially when stuck in school. The two often came hand in hand. Hiding the book inside his boring textbook, he continued to read when . . .
    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