by Archer Swift
Chapter 39
As effortlessly and calmly as a jungle toad catching a bug with its sticky tongue, the Ruler of Zika pulled back his huge sword with blinding power and speed. A flash. A blur of quicksilver, the forte of the blade slashing through Dylain’s neck. The contorted fear and confusion on his face abruptly halted; his features went deadpan, blank. Illuminated by the eerie purple hue from the crystal orbs overhead, ghostly. And then Dylain’s head rolled off his shoulders, and his body collapsed in a heap as a spurt of crimson arced high into the air.
I don’t think there was ever any doubt in anyone’s mind that Xakanic was going to do anything other than decapitate him, yet still; the distressed shock dispatched from the crowd was like a sudden explosion. A roar of emotion that was just as quickly sucked back into startled mouths, giving way to a terrified hush as Xakanic spun around to stare us down.
The Ruler of Zika burst into throaty laughter. “Puny human! He thought he could ally with me! And do you not all feel so, so pathetically foolish.” He held on to his stomach in another fit of hideous hilarity, his eyes flaring red, and then, with his long, dark, worm-like tongue; he licked Dylain’s blood from his scimitar’s handle.
Negotiating the shiver that crawled down my spine at the gory sight, I noticed that at no point did any of the four platform-bearers, or any of the hundreds of warriors for that matter, so much as display a hint of emotion. Their now dark-purple eyes and vacant, detached expressions, irradiated ominously by the purple lights, projected a chilling sense of slavish obedience.
“You gave your allegiance to this wretched traitor,” continued Xakanic enamoured by his own voice, “and you nearly executed the very one who almost sabotaged my grand plan.” He belly laughed again, his derisory tone flaying our fragile collective spirit to pulp. “I could not have planned this better. You are a weak, cowardly species … and today you all die. Everyone of you!”
Mastering my own fear, resisting the strong urge to collapse in a heap and play possum, it then occurred to me that at no point did I see a hint of blue in Xakanic’s eyes. Even during his bouts of mirth that seemed unrehearsed and genuine, his eyes never evolved beyond an intense dark-purple shade. Was he soulless? Was he all-monster? Was he incapable of compassion or mercy?
“Grata-grata-zolo-zolo,” he barked out orders in the harsh Zikalic tongue, and his warriors immediately closed in on the horrified human huddle, binding them in pairs with what seemed like, from where I was standing, gleaming purple bands.
“You!” he strode towards me with his scimitar still drawn. I froze. I could taste the fear in the back of my throat, and dread filled the pit of my stomach.
Slithering up to me, his eyes red but his expression otherwise unreadable, he brought the sharp blade to rest on my right shoulder, and then in horrible, theatrical slow-motion, he slid the curved blade on to my left, before poking me in the stomach—evidently trying to unnerve me. He totally succeeded, but I refused to show it. Grinding my teeth until my jaw ached and holding a white-knuckled grip on the sides of my pants helped me keep an outward impression of equanimity. Inside, battered by a tempest of terror, I was on the verge of shipwreck.
I won’t let you see it, Xakanic.
Snarling, he sniffed the air around me as his slimy, dark-purple tongue flicked out of the right side of his mouth and slid across his lips, coating them in a layer of dribble. “You…” his eyes ran up and down my frame with a look of scorn, “…you come with me.” He turned and spouted some orders to one of his platform-bearers.
The warrior marched toward me, and I noticed he held two twenty centimetre-long, rigid purple strips in his hand. He grabbed my left arm and slapped the first strip against my wrist. It instantly curled and snapped tight with a pinch; wrapping around my wrist like a sweatband. He then did the same to my right wrist with the second strip. As this band snapped shut, it must have activated a magnetic force in the bands since my wrists slammed together painfully. I instinctively winced despite my best efforts to remain impassive.
The warrior then threaded a rope between my fastened hands. Tied to the platform, I was dragged behind Xakanic, who was aloft again on the platform shouldered by his bearers. Without another word, we headed toward the wall of smoke.
Jordi!
It was only then that I remembered Jordin and the other trampled bodies. They would be left behind on the field, their bodies to be devoured by the Raptor or any other number of carnivores and scavengers. I’m so sorry, Victor. I’ve failed you. A crippling pressure bore down on my chest, and I struggled for breath.
