by Archer Swift
Chapter 32
“Man!” Ruzzell snorted with laughter, clapping his hands in mock applause. “The pansy peed himself!”
Shawz squealed like an excited Raptor at a fresh kill. “Dank! Just dank, Dorky!”
“Gag!” snickered Cartyr pointing to the wet spot on Jordin’s pants. “Geez, what a total loser?!”
The scathing roar of glee and derision was deafening; the smell of urine and fear, stomach turning. When Jordi finally looked my way with a tortured plea for help, I couldn’t take it any longer. Red mist fogged out logic and reason, and clogged up my brain’s control centre.
I shoved scrawny Brucie out the way and leapt onto the table, throwing a protective arm around Jordin. “Enough already!” I felt a snarl pull on my face and adrenalin fire through my body.
Ruzzell’s response was predictable and puerile. “Ha! Villain’s jealous! He wants to be the camp’s new girl!”
Ruzzell’s parasites just about fell over laughing this time. Snorting. Squawking. Rambunctious. I tried to comfort Jordin, and lead him off the table.
“Where do you think you’re going, girlies?” said Ruzzell, as his underlings tightened their guard around the table, blocking our path off. Gellica and Nadalie had retreated now from their seats and fretfully stood several strides back from Base Stump: their angst palpable. Judd was caught on the boundary-marker, so to speak. He was in the middle of the rabble, but now trying hard to distance himself from them.
“Come on, Ruzzell,” I said. “Let Jordin go. We all know this is about you and me.”
“About you?” he said with a scowl. “You? How full of yourself can you be? This has got nothing to do with you, Risteen … you’re nothing! Nothing!”
“Stop the dramatics, man.” I shook my head, livid. Dumbass! I looked for the soft underbelly. The man who represented the weakest link in the circle that surrounded the stump-table on which Jordin and I were trapped: Judd. Conflicted, double-minded Judd.
“Judd,” I begged, “please take Jordi. Not for me, for him … for Victor.”
At Victor’s name, I saw him flinch. Judd shook his head in violent self-incrimination and then reached out a hand towards Jordin. I know he did it out of guilt and goodwill, but he may have also been looking for a way to separate himself from the lynch mob. He averted his eyes from mine.
“Pretty Boy! What the heck are you doing?” hissed Ruzzell; enraged, his facial features gnarled serpent-like as if ready to strike.
“Come on, Ruzz. Please...” said Judd, wiping his brow, “...I didn’t sign up for this; you’ve got what you want.”
“Fine!” said Ruzzell. “Hurry up!” Judd helped Jordin down but trembling uncontrollably; he slipped and fell into a heap on the ground amid another chorus of hoots and gibes. He seemed bent on curling himself into a foetal ball before Judd yanked him to his feet and hurried him to the wash pool to clean up. I breathed a sigh of relief.
For you, Victor.
This time Gellica spoke out. “Come on, Ruzzell. Stop this, please! Do you realise how moronic—?”
“Ha!” said Ruzzell. “Are you defending your man, Princess?”
“Stop it! Just stop this!” Gellica’s tone was strained with alarm.
“Lover Boy,” Ruzzell mocked me. “Do you want your wench to join you on show?”
With fire in my veins, I stared at Ruzzell, trying to herd his attention onto me alone; my brain churning, wondering how I would survive this maelstrom. “It’s me you want, come … just you and me … let’s do this.”
“You have no idea, do you?” Ruzzell asked with a glint of glee in his eyes. “You have no freaking idea what’s really going down, do you, pal?” The supreme confidence on his face would have disturbed me. But it didn’t … because I did know. I knew exactly what was ‘going down.’
Dylain’s plan must be in motion. The beginning of the end starts right here. Right now.
Ruzzell jumped up on the table, and drew his knife. His minions tightened ranks around the platform, blocking any chance of my escape.
I wasn’t perturbed.
I’m not going anywhere.
“First, I’m going to gut you…” He snarled, slashing the air with his long blade; his groupies cheered. So lame. “Second, I’m going to take your woman. For some slap and tickle—”
I did hear Gellica’s gasp, but I didn’t let Ruzzell finish his sentence. I used the only factor in my favour. Surprise! I knew he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice. To continue to whip his followers into a frenzy. To spew his rabble-rousing poison. So I played the only option I had. And I finally acted on Victor’s advice.
I launched into Ruzzell, full-throttle. Discharged myself at him; my right hand grabbing his knife hand to ensure I didn’t impale myself. My full weight. Every muscle, organ, sinew, tendon, ligament and bone. Every atom of my being assailed his head, my forehead aimed like a missile at his large, broad hooter.
“Go for the nose immediately … hit it with everything you’ve got.”
I heard the crunching sound of bone before I felt the pain in my own head as my brow buried into his mug. The brutal force I struck him with knocked his big frame off balance, and sent us both reeling off the table, flattening two of his underlings underneath us. Head spinning, I was on top of a four-man pile-on. Legs and arms everywhere.
His knife hand secured in mine.
Good!
Unable yet to wrench the knife from his grip.
Not good.
He was too strong.
Ow! My head!
Blood! His, not mine.
Ruzzell’s face was bathed in red gore spewing from his nose. Any pain I felt was multiplied several times over for him. No mercy! I used the upper hand that I had, literally.
As hard as I could, I drove my right forearm and elbow into his battered nose. “Arghhhh!” I yelled in pain, drowned only by the agonised screech that jettison out of his mouth.
His grip relaxed on the knife. Relief! His body went limp. Don’t die! I rolled off the heap of bodies with his knife in my right hand, and I quickly drew my own knife in my left.
My head swirled as the pain seemed to intensify. I felt my stomach threaten to discard yesterday’s meal. My brain blanked for a second as my vision went blurry at the edges. I thought I passed out, but finding myself still on my feet; I took it as evidence that I hadn’t.
Oh, yes. This is what head butting a tree feels like.
Cartyr and Brucie, the two flunkies, squashed by our fall were helped to their feet, although both looked decidedly groggy. Cartyr was muttering gibberish, but then again, Cartyr was always just one whack away from being punch drunk. While Brucie whimpered, rubbing his twisted neck, Shawz checked on a concussed Ruzzell. An airy spray of blood vapour from his mouth assured me he was still breathing.
Phew!
The rest of the mob stared me down, their knives drawn … yet leaderless; they were not sure what to do. Dixan had not drawn his. His shaking hands and the remorse pressed into his face gave me a surreal dose of delight, wholly unbefitting the dilemma I still faced.
Come back from the dark side, Dix. You’re a good man.
Judd and Jordin had obviously heard the commotion, and rejoined the frightful scene: their eyes as large as saucers, their faces slack from shock. I knew I must look grisly, ghastly even. Red with Ruzzell’s blood.
My elbow ached excruciatingly, and my dizzy head pounded. I could swear my forehead was indented. I felt a trickle of blood drip into my eye. Wiping it away along with the bead of sweat that had gathered on my bruised brow, I wondered where to from here.
“It didn’t have to come to this. No one has to die today,” I tried to reason with the mob that was momentarily frozen in uncertainty. Now that Ruzzell was unable to goad them into mayhem and murder, at least for a few minutes, I had a chance. On cue, I heard Ruzzell stir slightly and cough up blood. A slim chance.
“You’re finished, Villain,” said Shawz. “Done. Dead. It’s been decided.”
“What’s been decided?” asked Nadalie, who spoke out for the first time.
“The whole end game.” Shawz spoke tough, but he looked scared.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gellica turn to Judd. “What’s he on about? End game?”
“Uh … umm—”
“Come on, Judd; you can’t chicken out now,” said Satoru, who shuffled on his feet, looking very much like he, too, was in two minds about whatever they had planned.
“And what did Ruzzell mean by he’s taking Rist’s woman?” asked Nadalie, her pretty face besmirched with disquiet.
“He said, what?” asked a bemused Judd doing a double take at her. “Hang on, this wasn’t the deal.”
“Deal? What deal, Judd?” asked Gellica assertively, the tone of her voice giving perfect evidence to the snit and bewilderment she felt.
When Judd dithered, and I knew an answer wasn’t forthcoming, I yelled: “Okay, listen up!” I didn’t interrupt sooner, hoping that some reason would prevail. The cold eyes of Ruzzell’s crew told me I needed to slam home any advantage I had. And quickly. “It’s obvious we need to clear the air. But! But killing each other is not going to get us very far. Plus, the dark points for murder—”
“But that’s just the thing,” cut in Shawz, finding his voice in a last-ditch showdown. “This is a new day, a new order … those puny rules no longer apply!”
Ruzzell spluttered. “W-w-h-h-at … wh-what…?” He coughed his way out of unconsciousness. “What the hell? Wh-where … where am I?”
“Help me … get him to his feet,” said Satoru. He and Shawz hefted Ruzzell up with some difficulty.
Mad, spitting-blood furious, it slowly dawned on Ruzzell what had happened. “My nose!” he spat and then coughed some more. He touched his left cheek, shock in his eyes. “You’ve broken my nose and…” he opened his mouth wide three or four times with patent discomfort, “…and my cheek bone. Freak, you! You … you scrawny little insect. You’re dead, so freaking dead!” He tried to take a step toward me, but stumbled over before using Satoru and Shawz as crutches to stay upright.
At that exact moment, a terrible thought crossed my mind. Ripped through my soul, truth be told.
Murder.
I had never ever contemplated killing one of our own, until that instant. If Ruzzell was to recover, the element of surprise would no longer be a factor in my favour. I knew I had no chance of beating him in hand-to-hand combat. In any form of combat. None. Zip, zero, zilch. But if I pounced now, he was completely defenceless.
What will Scott think of me, then? And my own father? And Gellica? Is it justified? Can I claim self-defence? Will I lose the only bit of humanity I have left?
As he continued spitting bile at me, perhaps he sensed his own vulnerability. Maybe he saw what my mind was chewing over through the windows to my soul. For his threats were long, exaggerated and gory. Clearly, he was trying to bully me into inactivity. Batter me into submission.
I decided. No more brooding necessary.
I knew what I had to do.
But I didn’t do it for Scott, or my Dad or Gellica. I did it for me. For the God I prayed to that morning.
I dropped both knives on the ground at my feet. I found that peace again. And the words flowed. “Ruzzell, the thought occurred to me to cut you down … now, right now. You’re a mess, and it’s clear you can’t even hold yourself up. But this new day you herald cannot start with spilling the blood of our friends, our family, our own clan. Right now, you’ve got to make a decision. We’ve all got to make a decision.” I glared at Ruzzell’s puppets as steely-eyed as I could, hoping my words would hit home. Praying that I could appeal to what humanity they had left. “Today, this new day you proclaim, is defined by what you … me … we all do next.”
An unbearable, stunned silence hung over the clan. I knew they were pondering my words. And I knew my words started to reach the intended target when the heads began to drop.
“Come, guys,” said Dixan, his face blanched sombre. “This, this has gone too far. Way too far.”
“Please,” said Gellica, her voice taut. “Put a stop to this madness.”
Brucie was the first to drop his knife. Satoru, then Cartyr next. Shawz looked certain to discard his too, when…
Ruzzell let out a gurgling, derisive laugh and started clapping … which was cut short by a fit of coughing and spitting, lots of spitting, but with considerable effort, he resumed the cackling again. He did enough to break the sober silence and revive the tension he seemed to feed on. The chaos he craved. His mock applause jarred my pounding head.
“You’ve put on a brave show, Villain; I admit. Defiant to the very end … you little punk.” He spat again, the last three words seemed to get caught in his gullet. Turning around to his acolytes, he growled: “What’s this, hey? Deserters? Pick up your freaking knives … and gut the villain. Now!”
An awkward few seconds ticked by too quickly before Shawz gleefully tightened his grip on his knife. Satoru and Cartyr retrieved their blades with less enthusiasm. Finally, Brucie picked up his knife with next to no conviction at all.
They won’t attack. Will they?
“Ruzzell, please…” begged Gellica and Nadalie.
“Come on, Ruzz. Don’t do this,” said Judd, wan and bleary-eyed, his voice conspicuously void of optimism.
Dixan tried too. “Guys, guys—”
“Shut the hell up,” Ruzzell snapped at him. “I’ll deal with you later, turncoat.” He slowly turned back to face me, uneasy on his feet; his hazy eyes requiring a few more seconds to focus.
Stand. I told myself. Stand your ground.
“On the count of three, kill the maggot.” Ruzzell’s left blood-matted eyebrow creased over his swollen eye. “Execute him like the traitor he is. One…”
In a rather odd way, I was interested to see what they would do. I could see my words were still weighing on the conscience of most of them. Everyone except Shawz looked decidedly unsure of what to do next. But Shawz wouldn’t come at me alone, and Ruzzell was in no position to enter the fray. Of course, I could flee. Only Dixan was quicker than me, but he wouldn’t give chase. Alternatively, stand … and fight?
Do I pick up my knife?
With a bovine look on his face, Ruzzell’s eyebrow crumpled over his right eye. “…two…”
