Chapter Five
Paax
Mediation grounded him. Before a great trial of his intellect or physical skill, Paax always took the time to find his center and breathe. In his youth, other warriors had scoffed at his methods. They preferred to work themselves into a frenzy.
Frenzies were not precise. Paax was unfailingly precise. He had never failed a trial. When he decided to master something, he did. When challenged, he was triumphant. There was no alternative.
Today would be no different.
Every day started in the training arena, as it had since he’d begun his warrior’s training as a child. While he remained a scientist first, the other males forgot that he was also a warrior. He let them remain ill-informed. Their lazy observations only served to help him, and he enjoyed the look of shock in their eyes when they realized they had vastly underestimated him.
Paax heard the rumors, the whispers saying he was unfit to be warlord, that Omas had been weak and only a lucky blow took the former warlord’s life. Any warrior could have done it. Any warrior could take the new warlord.
Paax was neither deaf nor blind.
Today the rumors and whispers stopped.
He’d separate the gossiping males from his clan, the ones who only recognized brute strength as the most important virtue in a leader. He’d leave behind only those who valued intellect and physical prowess. He’d take on the entire clan if required to ensure the safety and wellbeing of his mate and children. There was no alternative.
He’d start with that arrogant communications officer, Antu, who thought he deserved preferential treatment because his brother happened to be the warlord of another clan. Antu only valued brute strength. His brother, Antomas, was disappointedly the same. Raw physical strength might win the warlord’s command, but it could not hold onto it. Antomas would find out soon enough.
Antu fancied himself worthy to lead the Judgment. Paax heard those rumors, too. Empty words, spouted by an empty-headed male. Soon he’d make it clear that there were consequences for empty words.
Paax caught his reflection in the glossy surface of the wall paneling. Omas stared back at him.
The changes had happened so slowly over the course of the last year that Paax had failed to notice. Their similarities lied more than just in their identical jaw and hair; it reflected in the hard glint in his eye.
He was unsure how this made him feel. Connected to his twin as they shared the same burden of leading the clan? Resentful that Omas pushed this burden on him? Thankful that Omas brought a mate to Paax at long last?
If he were still alive, they’d spar and purge the bad feelings out, stopping only when their muscles ached and the vitriol between them vanished. Antu would have to do.
Paax surveyed the arena. A good number of males arrived, curious. Other’s had the lean, anticipatory look of predators about them. They smelled blood in the water.
The crowd fell silent.
Paax strode into the center. He wasn’t one for a spectacle, preferring to get down to it. He took off his armor piece by piece, letting them fall to the sand floor. He wore only loose fitting trousers, no shirt and no shoes. The sand of the arena floor worked its way between his toes.
“I won’t waste our time with a speech. You know why you are here. Those who believe they can best their warlord should do so now.”
A male, lean and young, climbed over the retaining wall. He dropped to a crouch, eyes gleaming at Paax with ambition.
Fool.
Paax rushed in, slicing a tendon before he had a chance to stand. The youth rolled onto his back. To his credit he did not cry out. He swallowed his pain and that saved his life.
The point of his sword pressed into the prone male’s throat. “Do you concede?”
“Yes, warlord.”
Paax eased back the sword, allowing the male to regain his footing and hobble away. The wound was not critical. He would heal.
Another male approached, this one less dramatic and cock-sure in his approach. Paax recognized him as staff for navigation. A supporter of Antu, then, and possible saboteur.
“You are weak, Paax Nawk,” the male said. “You sit and think and do nothing, like a weakling.”
He mistook intelligence and planning for weakness. The Judgment was better off without a male like him.
The male rushed forward, sword swinging wide overhead. Dumb and sloppy. Paax blocked with one hand and side stepped. As the male spun, Paax’s war hammer knocked his legs out from underneath him.
“Do you concede?”
“Never.” The male spat.
Paax moved with brutal efficiency and ran his sword through the warrior's throat, pinning him to the sandy arena floor. Barely a moment passed before he felt the air move as Antu approached in a shameless, honor less move. He spun, blocking the blow aimed for his back.
Antu moved swiftly, youth and righteous vigor on his side. They danced across the sand, exchanging blows. The energy imbued edges of their weapons humming and crackling with each clash.
“You are old,” Antu said, forcing Paax back.
The edge of the blade grazed his temple, drawing blood. The pain stung but he ignored it for the moment. He let the male gain the upper hand because the truth was that Paax was older. Racing around the arena wore him down. Antu had youth on his side and could run and jump and make all sorts of attention grabbing displays. It was all show and no substance.
Antu was cocky and sloppy, his stance unbalanced and leaning too far forward.
“Nothing to say?” With a grin he drove forward in a series of blows, each swing becoming grander and flashier. Paax kept his motions simple, expending just enough energy to block, moving just enough to avoid the blade, and retaining his balance. Even the fast flurry of Antu’s blows did not unsettle his footing. He moved when he chose to move.
His sword had a shortened reach, allowing Antu in closer. The male lunged forward aggressively, blade piercing Paax’s shoulder. Armor would have stopped that.
Paax wrapped his hand around the blade, the edge cutting into his palm. He yanked the blade out of his shoulder. Shocked, Antu’s grip on the hilt loosen. “How can you?”
Paax yanked the blade away entirely. Antu stared down at his empty hands, shocked that his weapon vanished.
“Do you know why I took off my armor?” Paax asked.
Antu fell to his knees. Weaponless due to his own hubris, he was dead. If Paax had pity and spared his life, he was still the warrior who let go of his weapon. Another warrior would remove the blight of his shame at the first opportunity. A Mahdfel did not let go of his weapon, be it a sword or a rifle, in combat. Ever.
“I did it so vainglorious idiots like yourself would believe they had the upper hand and be lazy. Lazy loses battles. Lazy costs lives.” He shouted the words to his wider audience of warriors. Paax pressed the blade to Antu’s throat. “Always ask why the enemy does what he does.” It was too late for Antu to learn battle tactics now.
“Mercy,” Antu whispered.
“Yes,” Paax agreed. “That is why we are here.” She was the motivation for everything.
The energy imbued blade sliced through the male’s neck, head spinning clean off and landing in the sand.