Nobility (The Dystopian King Book 1) Read online

  I wore dark pants, a black shirt, and a brown canvas duster jacket. I wore a black wide-brim fedora on my head. I wore military issue black combat boots and gloves. I had a knife attached to my side beneath the duster, a bullwhip next to that, and a metal retractable bo-staff on my back. I carried an old, bulky revolver on my hip, an ancient weapon in today’s world of blaster weapons, but a tool I found both comforting and nostalgic in a time in which I never felt I belonged.

  The strangest part?

  I wore a tight fitting black mask with finger-painting-like white streaks across the right cheekbones and eyes socket and little studs dotting downs my nose and across my eyebrows area. My eyes were covered by silver lenses and my mouth was completely covered over by the material of the mask.

  “Freeze! Put your hands up slowly!” ordered one of the men. I couldn’t resist rolling my eyes, even if I knew they couldn’t see it.

  “I’m sorry are you wanting me to freeze or put up my hands because I can’t do both. Besides, if you haven’t already noticed, my hands are already up in the air,” I said smugly.

  I tend to act sarcastic around authority I don’t respect. It’s a flaw Gabriel tells me will get me killed one day.

  The man gritted his teeth and growled, “What are you doing up here?”

  “Well isn’t it obvious? I robbed the Mayor’s safe deposit box. I did it for Lady Alexandra Carline, and now I’m fleeing across rooftops to get to this very spot. I’ve been waiting for you buffoons to get here ever since. It’s hard to make you all look like fools to the rest of the world when you’re running late. Sheesh I thought you NPFC guys were all top notch.”

  I know it was dangerous—correction, stupid—to insult a Noble, especially an NPFC officer. The law was very clear about Noble and Outcast relations. If an Outcast struck, stole, hit, killed, threatened, violated in anyway, or even insulted a Noble, he could be reported and later executed…often publicly. But, if a Noble did the same toward an Outcast, he would only be let off with a warning or maybe even congratulations. Only murder brought a Noble to trial, but even then, a conviction may only put a Noble in a cushioned prison a few short years at most. Overall, Outcasts were nothing more than slaves to the rest of the world, especially in the eyes of an Empire ruled by a Noble family that has always despised the Outcast race.

  The NPFC officer, obviously an alpha-male kind of person who did not usually get insulted to his face, raised his gun at me, and his buddies did the same. Clearly, insulting these men was not the best course of action. I’m a very quick learner, and highly intelligent (in my opinion), but I tend to follow my emotions more than my reasoning. My second greatest flaw.

  “You’re under arrest for burglary, assault, and for pissing me off,” shouted the alpha-male. The short version of what he meant: I would be hanged the following night without a trial. Outcasts weren’t allowed fair hearings. I’m pretty sure that was written law in the city. I’m certain it was routinely practiced.

  In the distance, I could hear the monorail moving down its track right on schedule. I only needed to stall a few more seconds, and then I was as good as gone…if the officer didn’t shoot me for talking back to him. With my mouth this might be harder than I thought.

  “I imagine you think I will be coming with you quietly, but ask yourselves, if that were the case, why did I wait for you?” I said. I rolled up my left sleeve, revealing my forearm with the word “OUTCAST” printed in large, bold lettering. It was the mark given to ever child of the Empire, a physical marking of either Noble or Outcast for everyone to identify.

  “I’m here to change the injustice plaguing this city, and to help those oppressed by it.”

  The officers gave me odd looks, thinking me to be a crazy fool. Then again, maybe I was out of my mind.

  But aren’t those who change the tide of life always thought to be out of their minds by those around them?

  “What is your name, Outcast?” growled the man to my right. The monorail got louder as it approached on the track just below us. I could almost feel it vibrating the ground beneath my feet. I smiled behind my mask with glee.

  Looking back, years from now, would mark this moment the beginning of the end.

  I stretched out my hands and said in my most charming voice, “I’m Shaman.” Then, I snapped my fingers.

  Fire erupted from the parking lot complex across the street, its fingers reaching toward the sky with a deafening boom. Car parts flew through the air like confetti. Even from far away, the building upon which we stood shook. The officers cowered in shock and turned away from me to look toward the explosion. Even the helicopter’s spotlight turned away. We were in complete darkness—well, except for the tower of fire with all the car bombs exploding.

  And now for my next trick…

  I would never recommend what I did next to anyone. It was incredibly stupid and unbelievably painful. But, I guess I like theatrics, perhaps a little too much for my own safety or sanity. My third greatest flaw.

  Just as the monorail passed one floor beneath us, I leapt off the rooftop, completely unseen by the NPFC men, and landed on top of the speeding the train. Not a pleasant landing. Judging from how much more it hurt on landing than I’d originally expected, the rooftop from which I’d jumped was more like two floors above the monorail and not one like I judged originally.

  No, it wasn’t pleasant at all.

  I crashed hard onto the monorail and bounced back up into the air. I would have screamed if gravity hadn’t sucked me back down and skipped me across the train rooftop like a skipping stone on water. I lost count of the number of skips, only remembering the pain. I flung to the left and flew off the side of a train car in a mess of screams and limbs toward certain doom to the street far below. I struck out with my hands, desperate to find something, anything, to save me.

  What a great idea this turned out to be!

  But luck was still on my side. My right hand caught hold of a handrail between two monorail cars. The sudden yank was tremendously painful and I thought it would rip my arm completely off, but the force threw me forward to slam against the monorail. The air escaped my lungs and I choked on emptiness. My arm wrenched and twisted and I gagged in agony as I held onto that train. I stayed there, pressed up against the side of the car like a splattered bug, holding on for dear life as the wind slapped against my face and threatened to throw me off. My fingers shook and burned with pain. The muscles in my arms stretched to their limits and muscles I did not even know burned and snapped. My duster flapped behind me like a parachute working against me. I couldn’t stay there and expect to live much longer.

  I clawed and stretched my free hand, searching for something to dig my fingers into. They found a grip in the space between two sheets of metal and I pulled with ever ounce of strength left in my withered body. Slowly, inch by painful inch, I worked my way toward the tiny connecting platform between the nearest two monorail cars. Thankfully it wasn’t far and I didn’t have to pass any windows. That was just what I needed, for someone to spot me as he looked out the window. I crested the opening and fell forward to lie on my face on the small platform, breathing heavily and thankful that I was still alive.

  Well, that was stupid, Griffon.

  My side screamed in pain and I could tell I would walk away with some injuries, bruised ribs if nothing else. My head and neck spun and ached, and my shoulder and knees felt like they were exploding repeatedly.

  If I escape this situation with no concussion, I’m one lucky man.

  Overall, I was alive. I wanted nothing more than to just lie there for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of my life, but I still had work to do before that could happen. I took out a large black trash bag from my pack and began stuffing all my gear into it: my tools, my duster and hat, my weapons, the file, and then my mask. In a few moments I was no longer Shaman, but just an average guy in a gray sweatshirt. I leaned out over the platform and waited, still counting down in my head. The monorail moved past buildings
of all shapes and sizes, some new and some old. We moved passed a certain alley way inside of which I knew was an old green sedan, just like I’d planned. I tossed the trash bag with all my gear as we passed and it bounced on top of the car. I barely got a glimpse of someone opening the door as the monorail whipped on by.

  “Got the package,” said Alison, the third member of my team, with her silky-smooth voice in my ear piece. I couldn’t help but smile at hearing her voice. I turned to open one of the monorail doors to enter the car. I learned a very shocking truth right there and then: no plan survives contact with the enemy, not even my genius plans.

  Before me was a car full of maybe twenty people, both Nobles and Outcasts, men and women, which was odd since the monorail was usually segregated between the two groups. But the really strange part was that all the people were tied to their seats and their mouths were gagged. Four men in ski masks stood between the seats and held semi-automatic weapons. The armed man nearest to me looked up after hearing the door open and stared at me in shock. He started to raise his gun and opened his mouth to shout something. I had only moments to act, not much time to think things through properly. I slapped the man’s weapon up and away from me with my left hand and I grabbed his throat with my right. He reacted by squeezing his trigger and his gun went off, spraying bullets into the ceiling and nearly deafening me.

  There’s no way that went unheard.

  I kicked the man’s knee cap and he dropped in pain, which gave me a good view of the other three men, all of whom raised their guns and came forward. I twisted the helpless thug around keeping my right arm around his neck and held his own gun outward with my left.

  “I…I think I got on the wrong train. Let’s just pretend I wasn’t here,” I said. My hands were shaking and I had the horrible image of me having to shoot someone…or worse getting shot by these men after my grand disclosure on the rooftop. I had no wish to ever shoot anyone—and even bigger wish not to be shot in return. I might carry a gun with me in my heists, but that was more for show than anything else. I was not a killer. I could not imagine seeing myself pushed that far to do something drastic. But now I wasn’t sure how I could get out of this situation without breaking my vows when I became Shaman.

  I inherited the title and mask from Gabriel, the original Shaman. With it came rules—one of them being I wasn’t allowed to kill anyone as Shaman! But here I am with a hostage and a gun standing off with other armed men on a train filled with hostages. How am I not supposed to break my vows in this situation?

  The three terrorists froze in place and I believe they slowly began to smile and lower their own weapons. Before I could question why, I was whacked in the back of the head and knocked out cold.

  Some night this has turned out to be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hello, anyone awake in there?” asked a far-off voice. I felt the words more so than actually hearing them, as if I drowned in a pool of mud and someone outside the pool was shouting to me. The voice called again and something thumped my skull like knocking on a door. I gurgled and sputtered as I swam through those muddy waters, drawing closer and closer the the voice calling for me. Though the act was purely mental, it opened a door for pain to wash in. It washed away the muddy waters and sent my swirling to the surface in rapid waves of turmoil and pain. My muscles ached and creaked like tree bark rubbing against sandpaper. My dry cracked like stone. My gut swam from a mixture of motion sickness and head trauma. I stirred slightly and tried to pry an eye open. Immediately, a blinding array of flashing colors spun around me like small fireworks.

  “There you go. Come back to the real world now. We have much to discuss,” said that same voice again. It was a man’s voice, and clearer now than before, with great certainty and confidence dripping from his words like honey from a jar. This man, whoever he was, was the man in charge of this operation for sure. My vision cleared, and with it a final flash of pain wafted over me. I gasped and groaned helpless to fight against it.

  Concussion? Hmmm. Maybe even lasting loss of brain function. Hence forth I will forever blame all bad decisions on this experience!

  “I apologize, but I had to hit you that hard. I couldn’t allow you to walk freely through this train and risk getting yourself hurt or ruining what transpires here,” said the man.

  Once my vision recovered, coming in slowly in blurry bits and pieces, I realized I sat on the floor of the monorail in the first car, handcuffed to a pole. Squatting before me was a man who looked higher in class than the common criminals I was used to seeing on the streets. He was lean-muscled like a foot soldier, wearing a charcoal suit, a dark blue striped shirt, and a black tie. His face showed the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, which cast a gray curtain across his pale chin. His short black hair twisted up and back like an ocean wave cresting just before its forward crash. His eyes sparkled light hazel, like two jeweled amber stones upon his face. He smiled with flawless white teeth. His smile was so perfect that I felt instant hate and respect for him. I knew him to be older than me, possibly by a few decades, but his Noble genetics made him appear only a few years older compared to possible decades if he was a middle-aged man.

  His eyes shifted down to his hand and I realized he held my earpiece. He twisted it around in his hand, as though it fascinated him. Then he slid the earpiece in the center of his palm and casually crushed it like a handful of empty peanut shells at a baseball game.

  Well, so much for back-up.

  I was alone then on a train full of possibly trigger-happy terrorists and tied-up hostages.

  Yup, seems like a great way to spend a Friday night.

  The sharply dressed man flashed his perfectly white teeth and stood up to reveal his full height. Even while sitting down, I could tell this man stood taller than me by at least a couple of inches. He held a black sword cane made of Malacca wood with a silver raven head at its tip. He leaned carefully on the cane, not in a manner of need but in a manner of relaxation and consideration, with his hands folded over the raven’s head. His breath smelled of mint, his body of light cologne.

  None of that shocked me as much as what I saw on his right hand. He wore a gold banded ring with a black sigma. The sigma design was of a silver skull holding a rose between the teeth and a combat knife stabbed through the skull.

  I’ve seen that symbol before! But where?

  My mind raced through repressed memories once thought locked away forever. They flashed rapidly and painfully through my mind’s eye and suddenly I was a child again watching the horrifying day when my parents were murdered. And at the center of each brutal image was that sigma.

  That meant…

  I knew him.

  He caught me eyeing his ring, and said as he lifted up his hand to eye it himself, “Ah, I see you like my ring. I don’t blame you. It’s a nice ring. Nothing on this Earth is more valuable to me than this ring, and that’s because what it represents to me. Call it a reminder if you will of the life I have chosen. When I look at it I am reminded of my goals and that I am freely able to take the lives of those who would seek to stand in my way…or the lives of those who stumble into places they don’t belong and are tempted to lie to get out of it.”

  My gut twisted a little as he smiled wickedly.

  “Honesty might buy you life, but lie to me and you die. So let’s start with an easy question. Were you attempting to stop my operation here?” His canines flashed at me. He looked like a wolf just before it pounced on some wounded and helpless prey. Fear silenced me. I stared at him and could only shake my head. Every time I thought of speaking, that symbol on his ring flashed in my mind, and I felt such burning emotions that I spent all my energy to push those memories down again. I hadn’t the strength to both reply to the man and fight the memories.

  “Wrong place at the wrong time then. Excellent. Now, you may call me… Ziavir Yiros.”

  Gulp.

  I was afraid he would say that.

  My heart immediately skipped a beat. Nothing in
the world had ever filled my nightmares more than that name. Nothing had ever caused me to wake up screaming at night when I was a child more than this man. This man wasn’t just any ordinary man. He was a mass murderer, a terrorist, and a myth even to the criminal underworld. He was the devil himself. That moment of realization caused all my repressed memories and emotions to flood over me, reminding me that this man was present at the murder of my parents.

  Rage burned inside of me like a violent volcano. Hate blinded me. I saw only red. My once tight and rigid muscles relaxed with blood pumping through them and suddenly I felt the strength and the energy within me to fight. I wanted to rip him limb from limb with my bare hands, to feel the tearing of his tendons between my fingertips. My thoughts and emotions were so dark they scared even me. I wasn’t aware I could feel anything so strongly. But the emotions wafted over me and I suddenly snarled like a dog and struggled against my handcuffs to grab him. It was a hopeless and pathetic attempt.

  Ziavir Yiros smirked and said, “Ah…you know who I am. You have me at an unfair disadvantage then. I’ve always prided myself on being able to remember ever name and face I’ve come across. My business depends on it. But I don’t recall the two of us ever meeting before tonight.”

  Fury kept me from clarity of thought. I saw dark visions of vengeance over vague and blurry memories of a past forgotten. They were of puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together. Yet the emotions of each piece felt so real and strong that my conscience struggled to reign them in. I drowned in a river of rage and despair. Something broken and twisted and ragged surfaced out of those raging waters that clawed its way up by dead hands. The waters were hot, hot like lava, and they burned away inside of me till I could see clearly for the first time something dark lived inside me and it had just woken up.

  What is going on with me?

  I gave into my emotions with each passing heartbeat. My brain followed and began to rationalize an impossible escape. The first step would be picking the locks on my handcuffs. It would be done easily. However, I knew I would be killed even before I could finish. I could always kick Ziavir in the face right now. But as satisfying as that might be, he would kill me out of anger. Some part of still rationalizing intelligence midst the storm raging within me decided then to wait for the right opportunity to make my move. I’d already slipped out the lock-pick that I kept hidden on my wrist, and moved it quietly into the palm of my hand behind my back.