The Making of Heroes

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Spiker held his weapon steady, the point an inch from the other man’s throat. Behind him, he heard a stirring. Without turning his head, he said “You’d better stay still, or my hand might get twitchy.” The noise subsided. The man he had pinned against the wall - the Clansman named Figgus - visibly relaxed.

Spiker held him there for a few more seconds before half grinning and lowering his arm. He had made his point and this standoff would go nowhere. He moved aside and nodded towards the door. “Tup off. And take him with you.” Figgus scowled, spat to the side and left. The other Clansman struggled to his feet and followed.

Spiker shrugged: two more enemies made. So what. His world was of shifting, temporary friendships and enemies, of agreements made and often broken, of favours owed, given and received. Except for Hera, nothing seemed permanent, all appeared fluid. And they were both feeling a growing restlessness: soon it would be time for them to move on. Another township, another start, another ….. Spiker looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers … another turn of the wheel, another dead end.

There was a movement in the entrance, and two Clansmen appeared. One carried a white plinth a foot or so high, while the other held a high-backed, ornate chair made of a dark hard wood Spiker didn’t recognise.

They placed the plinth just forward of the entrance, with the chair on top. The men positioned themselves to either side, standing tall and to attention. They were large and surly, wearing matching uniforms that was partly armour. Spiker blinked: they were carrying - of all things - long curved swords.

Spiker raised his voice. “Kzar, I think your two minutes are now up.”

A middle-aged Clansman appeared. He walked round the plinth and lifted his hand. “Yo Spiker.”

“Yo.”

“If you require a name, I’m Catman.” He opened a small bag and held it out. “Your weapons, please.”

It was to be expected. Spiker shrugged and dropped his spike into the bag. Catman smiled knowingly and jiggled it a bit. Spiker shrugged and produced another spike from his boot and a small knife from a concealed pocket. Catman took possession and retreated.

There was yet another pause: maybe ten seconds this time, before Kzar finally made his entrance. He moved smoothly, coming in from behind the plinth, quickly climbing up and seating himself. A king on his throne, looking down on his vassals. Spiker had to admit: as a piece of theatre, it was impressive.

For a second or so, the two men stared at each other. Kzar was not what Spiker was expecting. A typical street boss was around thirty but seldom saw forty, and was imbued with presence, energy, cunning and a breathtaking disregard for safety. Warriors first, thinkers second, few had the qualities required to keep them at the top for long. There would be a coup - usually bloody - and a new boss would surface.

But Kzar was different. It was ludicrous to think of him as a warrior: he was slight of build and studious of mien and - although of average height - he lacked the confident swagger of the experienced fighter. His head was small, with perfectly smooth pink cheeks and eyes that were black, intelligent and soulful, while his hands were long fingered, delicate and perfectly manicured, with each thumb bearing a single gold ring.

When he spoke his voice was low, almost hypnotic; it was as if he were permanently on the point of breaking into song.

He was the first to speak. “Yo Spiker.”

“Yo Kzar.”

“I have something for you.” Kzar turned his head. “Catman.”

His attendant reached back behind the entrance and bought out one of the long curved swords, complete with belt and scabbard.

“Technically,” Kzar said “it’s called a scimitar. It actually appears more dramatic and deadly than it is. My research has shown the stab is the most effective form of attack with a sword, but - as you can see - a scimitar is designed to hack. You can cut an arm off with this, but you’d probably be stabbed to death in the process.”

The blade whispered as Spiker withdrew it from the scabbard. The handle felt comfortable in his hand; the edge was as a razor. A rare and coveted object indeed.

“There was a ruler in the olden days,” continued Kzar “who conducted tests to see which weapons were the most effective. He would arm a hundred warriors with one type - long spears, say - and a hundred with another - these scimitars, for example. Then they fought to the death.“ He paused, as if expecting Spiker to speak but Spiker said nothing. He hefted the scimitar, weighing it in his hand, testing the feel. It was so finely balanced it was a joy to hold. Kzar eventually continued: “After many hundreds of his warriors died, he armed his men with shields and short stabbing swords. His army conquered the known world.”

Spiker slid the blade back into the scabbard and held it out. “I cannot take this, Kzar. I cannot be so obligated.”

Kzar nodded and Catman took the sword back.

A strange lull occurred in the conversation. Kzar stared blankly at Spiker as if seeing him for the first time. Then Catman leant over and whispered into his ear.

“Yes. I know!” Kzar’s voice was tetchy, almost that of a little boy. Catman took up his position to the side again. Kzar turned his attention back to Spiker. His voice became almost formal, as if he had rehearsed what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. “Spiker Gomez, d’you know why I have bought you here?”

“For a raid?”

“Yes, correct.” Kzar stood. “Catman, bring two chairs.” Catman vanished. The street boss descended from his throne. Immediately, the two Clansmen closed ranks in front of him, forming a protective wall.

Kzar half smiled. “There’s no need for that. Spiker isn’t an assassin. Are you Spiker.”

“If I was,” said Spiker, “You’d be dead by now.”

“There. Y’see - nothing to worry about.” Kzar placed his hands on the shoulders of the Clansmen and parted them. Catman returned with two simple white chairs, which he placed on the floor in the centre of the room. Not directly facing each other, but at a slight angle.

Kzar sat and indicated the other chair. “Join me.” And while Spiker was arranging himself, Kzar nodded to Catman, who nodded to the two Clansmen, who went, taking the plinth and the throne with them.

This, Spiker realised, was a carefully planned and choreographed meeting: first the impressive entrance; then an exchange seeking to establish Kzar as the man in charge and now a friendly chat. All designed to convince Spiker to do things that - ten minutes previously - he wouldn’t have wanted to do.

Kzar smiled and placed his hands on his knees. “Well, Spiker, here we are.” Behind him, Catman stood, seemingly impassive, but Spiker - like all street fighters adept at reading body language - picked up a certain tenseness. Catman was well named: he was now like an old tiger with a twitching tail, ready to pounce.

Kzar spoke. “I have been a street boss for many years. How? Because I realised early on one fundamental truth about human nature.”

He paused, giving time for Spiker to say something, but he remained resolutely silent.

Kzar sighed. “Everyone, my friend, can be bought. Everyone. If not with creds or -” he half smiled “- a long curved sword, then with something else. Everyone has a price, and I have always been skilled at finding it.” He leant forward and his eyes descended on Spiker. “You were on a raid five years ago.” It was a statement, not a question. Spiker looked down at his boots. Kzar’s voice was flat. “As far as I know, you’re the only person to have survived the dead zone at night.” He was sitting very still, his hands now folded together, his back straight. Wearily, Spiker looked past him, at the wall, waiting for the inevitable next question: ‘How?’

But then Kzar said: “Spiker, d’you believe in luck?”

This was so unexpected, Spiker jerked his head round to look directly at the other man. Kzar stared serenely back, waiting for a reply. Briefly, Spiker considered, then said: “Luck? Sometimes, maybe. I don’t know.” And then the whole conversation, the slow verbal dance they seemed to be doing for no apparent reason, became tedious. Impatiently he asked: “Kzar, what do you really want?”

“Oh, don’t be impatient, Spiker. I’m an old man. You have to let me work around to things.” His tone hardened. “You catch rabbits, don’t you.”

It was a statement, rather than a question, so again Spiker said nothing.

“Now,” continued the street boss “correct me if I’m wrong, but rabbits come from the jungle. Or - to be more precise - the woods - which then become the jungle.”

After a pause Spiker grudgingly said “Yes.”

“Now d’you see where we’re heading with this?”

Spiker sat back, folding his arms. “No more games, Kzar. Tell me what you want.”

“I think you think you know what I want.” Kzar paused a second to let this sink in. Then he added “And you’re partly right.” Again there was a strange pause. Eyes blinking, Kzar stared at Spiker. Catman became alert and was bending to whisper once more in his boss's’ ear when Kzar jerked as if waking up.

He said “I need you for a raid. A Splice raid.”

“So I thought. The answer’s no.” Spiker looked from Kzar to Catman. “You can’t get into the dead zone anymore, they’ve sealed it up, and even if you could, the Spides would get you.” He stood. “I have thought often on this. The risks are too great, even for Splice.” He turned, ready to go. “So I’ll say goodbye.”

Kzar said “And what if you could get upside without going through the dead zone?”

“That’s impossible.”

“Oh, do sit down, Spiker. We haven’t finished. Catman, bring another chair.”

The Clansman did so and carefully positioned it to face the other two. From above, the three chairs would be on the corners of an equilateral triangle.

Spiker found himself angry and irritated, but intrigued. He sat and scowled, crossing his arms and legs. “So, what now?”

Kzar regarded him for a moment, then lifted his voice. “Tavia! I think it’s time for you to meet Spiker Gomez.”

In the entrance a figure appeared: a girl in her middle teens. Her physique was sturdy and vigorous and she had the confident bearing of one who has seldom - if ever - been truly hurt or in real danger. Her face was oval and set, with a downward turn to her mouth that spoke of a serious, focussed mind. Even at that age, Tavia was not one to cross. As he regarded her, Spiker felt a frisson of excitement: this was a person who made things happen and - he was sure - the driving force behind the whole enterprise.

She walked straight past Kzar and stood in front of Spiker, her hands on her hips, her feet wide apart, regarding him with a certain arrogant detachment. In one hand she gripped a flat black plastic object, about eighteen inches by fifteen and less than an inch thick.

Kzar spoke. “Take a seat, Tavia.” She spun round and did so.

Spiker found himself staring at her. She stared back. Her eyes might have been blue, or green. It was difficult to tell. Oddly disconcerted, he gazed at the floor.

Kzar looked from one to the other. “Tavia,” he said “is my niece.” And then he added: “And I require you, Spiker Gomez, to keep her safe during a Splice raid.”

Spiker jerked his head up and stared blankly at the street boss. This made absolutely no sense.