This is all my fault. If I’d just gotten on the right ship, I’d have apprehended the villainous Noxu and his whole violent rebellion would be crushed.
Crushed like an old man’s skull on a dry and dusty floorboard.
A true warrior will kill when necessary, but he never kills for sport. Never to amuse himself. He understands that every life you take stays with you, weighing down your soul, heavier and denser than a neutron star.
I can’t let this go on. I can’t stand and watch as they impale an old woman on a splintery stick—just to hear her scream. That is not what a Zalaryn warrior would do.
That is what a degenerate race like the Kraxx would do.
“Enough,” I shout. My voice is deep, authoritative and all the men stop what they are doing. For a moment I forget that I am supposed to be Kroda, a lowly Zalaryn defector, and I summon all my noble ancestry and speak to the group as if I am the Captain of the Imperial Guard. “Leave the woman. She has nothing of value.”
“Shut up, you scabrous hound,” Admiral Zuro says. With two long strides he crosses the room again and rears back with the length of wood. He strikes at me hard and fast, but I’m faster. I shoot out my arm and catch the wood, holding it steady mere inches from my head. I feel his grip on the wood loosen and I pull it from his hands.
“Will we have it said that Zalaryn raiders skewer old women? Will we have other races tremble at our name because we are the strongest and fiercest warriors? Or will we have other races spit and curse our name for cruel and hateful monsters?”
“Yes,” the captain says languorously. “That is the whole point of the Great Raid. The other planets in the galaxy have grown soft. We need to give them a renewed injection of fear.” He snaps his fingers at Zuro and nods towards the door. “Remember what I said. Blunt the tip,” the captain instructs Zuro. “Go gentle. Go slow. Don’t pierce anything. She’ll last longer this way.”
Deepest void. The sick cretin. I cannot let this happen. But I’m not Captain of the Imperial Guard. Not on this planet.
Zuro takes the length of wood from my hands and with one quick flick of his wrist, smacks me in the face with the splintery end. I feel it smash against my teeth, the inside of my mouth filling with blood.
I charge at Zuro, but two youths lunge at me, pinning me against the wall.
I’m not supposed to be doing this: causing trouble, standing out.
“Stop!” the captain cries out. His voice sounds wavery, shrill even, but he is the captain and we all stop and look at him. “Your words have moved me,” he says, looking straight at me. Oh, thanks be to the ever-shining sunslight. I couldn’t see this old woman put on a pike.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, but the captain just looks at me and smiles.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “I have thought about what you said. And I’ve changed my mind. Zuro, you carve the stake. Remember, blunt! And you Kroda. You will be the one to insert it. Nice and easy. There’s a tin of lard near the stove. Rub some of that on the stake to make it easier. If she lasts less than two days, I’ll take that as insubordination and punish you accordingly. Go on now. Get her skewered. The rest of you, everything on this planet is yours. Take what you will and burn the rest!”
Everyone scatters, hooting and smashing anything that would make a nice sound as it hits the floor.
The two youths who have me pinned to the wall tighten their grip on my arms and lead me outside into the odd, dim light of day. Two other youths take the old woman out, but she is weak and tractable. She will not survive the shock of a skewering, but she won’t have to. I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of, but I will not do this.
Outside, they hold her face down on the ground. Zuro is still carving the skewer, so I must be fast. I glance at the two lads, but they are looking longingly at their comrades who are already starting to sack the settlement. I reach into my waist-pouch and find the small round tin I keep in there. I conceal it, making sure that neither of the rebels sees it.
I kneel beside the woman with my back to the lads. They’re not paying any attention, which is good. If they notice what I’m about to do, there will be many more questions for me to answer. I open the tin and take out one white capsule. This old woman doesn’t speak my language, but I hope she will understand me. I show her the capsule and then stick out my tongue, demonstrating that she should place it underneath hers. I hand it to her, my stomach clenched tight in fear that she will throw it into the dirt and begin cursing. Then one of the lads will see it and ask where someone like me was able to get a capsule of sublingual elwer root.
Elwer root works fast, and in sublingual distillate, it works even faster. She will fall asleep within seconds and never wake up. I always bring one capsule with me on raids, in case I’m captured, or have the misfortune of having to give a fellow warrior with a mortal wound quick mercy.
She doesn’t throw it, and I relax a little. She puts it under her tongue and closes her eyes, sending one tear down her dusty cheek.
- - -
I kick down the door of the small shack and storm inside. I’m going to be sick. I haven’t felt this squeamish since my first raid when a Uruk warrior jumped down from his hide in the trees and landed on me, slashing at my throat with a sharpened obsidian spear. I could not charge my anankah in time and had to strangle the bastard with my bare hands. Afterward, my fellow raiders clapped me on the back while I vomited a thin stream of nervous bile into the dirt.
I feel much the same way now, but over the years I’ve learned to digest the atrocities I witness.
The atrocities I commit.
There’s that layer of crust covering my brain—covering my heart. All the vile deeds go underneath it, staying buried and separate from everything else.
Still, I need a moment to compose myself. This little house will do fine. No one is inside, as far as I can tell. If there is someone inside, they’re probably hiding. Good. I won’t go looking for them.
Then I notice the steam rising out of the corner of my eye, fogging up the one window of the cold shack. There is a fire in the stove, and a boiling pot on top. I scan the place and see there’s one cup set out on the table. One bowl with a small portion of dry vegetative matter. One utensil. Draped over the basin is one damp cloth, the sort humans use to perform their morning cleansing ablutions.
Hopefully, they have a good hiding spot. Hopefully, the raiders outside don’t decide to torch this place.
I take inventory. There’s not much. A few books, a few pots and pans, a rumpled and lumpy mattress in the corner. I walk to the bed, letting the sensations of the room wash over the pads on my head and my tongue. I’m getting an idea of who lives here. Then I see on the pillow there are long strands of dark hair. Human females wear their hair long, while the males tend to crop it short.
There is one female in this dwelling. Alone.
I will leave. I cannot save her. I could not save the old woman, and they just wanted to skewer her for sport. If the warriors outside realize there is another human female in the settlement, they’ll fall upon her, taking their pleasure with her as is their right of conquest.
The best way I can help her is to ignore her. To make it look like I’ve sacked the house and found nothing.
I knock down the water pot, spilling it on the floor. I fling the books around. One opens up and I see an inscription in the front. I know how to read a little of the Earth languages and can read To Aren, From Dad.
Sorry, Aren, I think.
I overturn the mattress. I must make it look convincing. I open up the drawers of one small bureau and throw the contents around the room.
By the window I see a row of small vessels filled with dirt. In one, there is a small seedling—the two cotyledon leaves barely poking above the surface. I feel a surge of anger. This human—this entire settlement—is trying to build something. Trying to grow things, create life.
And I am sent here to destroy it.
This never bothered me before. Perhaps because I was a younger man, trying to seek glory and make a name for myself. Perhaps because previous raids were conducted with more honor.
I take the tray of dirt and throw it to the floor, grinding the one small sprout under my boot.
There is a closet in the corner, the logical place for the female to hide. I want to open the door and tell her that she will be safe if she stays hidden. I will not, of course. That would only scare her more. Perhaps cause her to flee right into the arms of Zuro or, worse, Captain Ingzan.
I turn to leave, but out of the corner of my eye, I see the door fling open.
The human female is charging towards me. She clutches a tiny knife and it catches a glimmer of the faint light. She’s pointing it straight at my chest.
How many people are going to try and kill me today?
She is dressed in rags, and her brown hair is streaming behind her like a banner carried into battle. Her eyes are wild—the eyes of a cornered animal. Her mouth is a grim and bloodless slash across her face.
A children’s story flashes through my head: the story of Lakiv, the warrior-queen, the bonded mate to the first Zalaryn High King. She charged alongside him into battle, slaying foes with a primitive blade because she was not strong enough to wield an anankah.
I catch her wrists and wrench the knife away. It clangs to the floor with a hollow tink. Her arms feel so small, like if I squeeze them too hard I’ll snap the bones. She thrashes against me, her frail limbs trying to break free. The closet door is open and I can see there is a hole in the closet floor where she must have been hiding. It’s small and not very deep, so she must have been coiled up in there like a serpentoid, pouncing at me when she thought her time was right.
Brave, valiant, noble—and utterly foolish.
She tries to get away—I see her eyes locked on the knife—but I am easily able to restrain her. “Quiet,” I say to her, but realize that there’s no chance she would understand the Zalaryn language. “Stop,” I say, in what I think is the Earth language called English. But I can barely read the language, let alone speak its odd sounds.
I want to hold my hands up in a classic gesture of truce, but I’m too afraid that she will grab the little dagger off the floor and plunge it into my chest.
I have her wrists held tight, her body pressed close against mine in the struggle. I look into her eyes, trying to communicate my intent, hoping she will see no violence or malice in my eyes, but she refuses to look at me. I don’t blame her. I’m the enemy.
As she tries to free herself, a seam in her ragged little robe tears with a distinct and clear ripping sound. Her bare breasts spill out and she pulls her arms, trying to cover herself. I hold her tight, knowing that after her modesty is satisfied she will grab the knife. I can feel her breasts jiggling as she tries to pull her arms free, her nipples stiff in the cold air and scraping against my bare chest.
This is not the time to be noticing such things, but I can’t help it. She is a lithe and fierce female.
She is in full panic mode, undoubtedly thinking that I am going to take her against her will. I have never done that to a female in all of my years raiding and I’m not going to start now. Her legs get caught up in mine and I lose my balance, tipping over onto the floor.
Now she’s on top of me.
The rags she wears have ridden up above her hips and the soft thatch of hair between her legs brushes against my skin. What a poor and wretched creature to be on this desolate and cold planet without proper garments. I admit though, thoughts of the adequacy of her clothing are second to the desire I start to feel welling up in my groin. Despite the urgency and danger of the situation, I am a male and will react a certain way if a half-nude female lands on top of me.
I can feel her strong legs scrambling for purchase. Smell her hair as it whips about my face. Hear her breaths, fast and hitching. The sensations are intense, and I feel myself stiffen underneath my breeches. I haven’t felt the touch of a female in a long, long time. Not since I took my oath as Captain of the Imperial Guard.
I should have just left this place, left her cowering inside the secret closet crawlspace.
I have to get her back inside the closet before any other raiders come in and find her. Because now that I see her young body and fresh face, I know what the wild and pent-up lads will do when they see her. Young men like that are a mob. A hive-mind, acting without the strictures of civilization.
I know. I’ve been a part of mobs like that, part of a hive-mind bent on destruction.
“Get back in the closet,” I hiss at her. She makes no sign that she understands me. And why should she? It’s not like she has time to study the Zalaryn language after she’s done with a hard day of tending crops. “The others are coming.” It’s hard not to talk to someone, even if you know they can’t understand you.
For a split-second, I see a flash of comprehension in her eyes. Is it too much to hope that she somehow understands my language? Then her fear returns, instantly, like a comet flash in the sky. She begins to tremble in my arms.
She is not looking at me or at the knife. She is looking beyond me.
There is a spray of sunlight, weak though it may be, across the floorboards. The door is open.
“Look at this,” Zuro says, his voice a knife-edge, keen with malevolence. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”