Eden, Dawn

by Archer Swift

Chapter 35

  Even though I knew it, even though I realised I was being set up, when Dylain said the words, I thought I was going to die, literally. On the spot. “Ristan Abel murdered our venerated leader, Scott!” Right there, right then, I wanted to die. For the ground to open its cavernous gorge and chomp me whole.

  The weight of the accusation buffeted me. I felt baited, caught and gutted like a fish. Fear drove to the pit of my stomach, and seemed to take an iron-fisted grip of my every breath.

  I hardly heard the vitriol of the crowd directed at me, fully expecting them to put me out of my misery and tear me apart, but I did hear Gellica’s shriek. It was almost as bad as the announcement itself. My insides wound up like hay whirled with a pitch fork.

  I could only guess that Dylain barked out some orders because in the next instance, two men grabbed me. They hefted me to my feet, one on the left and one on the right, and dragged me to the front. My head lolled heavy on my neck, and my eyes were glued to the floor. My vision blurred, and I saw white spots at the edges. The throaty gurgling sound continued. I felt trampled underfoot by a Sabre. Smashed.

  Kill me now.

  The man on my left held me in a venomous grip; he twisted my arm painfully, and dug his strong fingers into my flesh. The one on my right was far gentler, but he was trembling. I was about halfway to Dylain when I realised that the man on my left was my archenemy Ruzzell, and the man on my right was Judd. My friend.

  The crowd hissed at me; at least two people spat on me, and Ruzzell spluttered in my ear with exultant glee, “Told you, Villain; your days are numbered,” just before he and Judd dropped me, slumped on my knees in front of Dylain.

  “Quiet! Shut up! Sit down!” screamed Dylain; I was aware of a spray of his spittle landing on me. I think. Maybe it was just the spots in my fuzzy vision. “Scott would have wanted us to do this properly! Order!”

  I thought my head was going to split open. I never usually got headaches unless, of course, Ruzzell pounded on me. Or if I head butted him. Being accused of murder, however, brought on a headache of a different kind and intensity entirely. A tortured pain that started deep within my soul and bored its way out.

  “Right! We know murder carries a penalty of eight dark points and six months in solitary confinement. With Ristan Abel’s record and the four dark points he already has, it means immediate banishment to the Forbidden Region—”

  “No, we want a public execution!” demanded a raspy tone near me. The incendiary voice continued yelling, “Public execution! Public execution!”—whipping the crowd into the crazed jeer; baying for my blood. I nearly gave up right then … the object of everyone’s derision.

  And I would have … if I didn’t see it.

  In the frenzy of the call for my head, I saw Dylain tip his head at someone, a look of satisfied accomplishment. My eyes followed his gaze. Cainn. And beside him, Ruzzell. Yes, Cainn had called for the public execution. And with Ruzzell, the three of them made a formidable team; now, revelling in their mutual success. Their smugness rankled me. And galvanised me. As my eyes shifted around the hostile crowd, I spotted those vociferously yelling for my blood: the young men, those most susceptible to Dylain’s seditious allure.

  It’s all going according to his plan!

  It was a snapshot of crystal-clear darkness. Evil concocted and executed. I was horribly right. Dylain had, without question, authorised my disposal. To silence me and any information I had. Having survived the morning’s murder attempt on my own life, I was now going to take the fall for Scott’s. Dylain was using me in some gripping finale. But when had he decided to kill Scott? If he had expected my demise today, would he have planned to kill Scott this morning, too? Had Miltredic been followed?

  The only thing I was sure of was this: Dylain had manipulated everything, and was using all the tricks of the trade to stir the crowd into a wild ruckus. He could so easily have had me arrested when I arrived, dealt with me in private and broken the news to the clans tactfully. Rather, everything was designed to create this cuckoo chaos. That’s when I knew the show was far from over. That’s when my resolve returned.

  I can’t give up.

  “Okay, okay! Quiet … Order!” he said, and the crowd seemed to respond immediately. “Yes, I too would love nothing better than a public execution such is the magnitude of the crime, but—”

  “Allow me to defend myself!” I shouted loud, leaning forward on my knees. I knew I needed to grovel to appease the crowd, but I also needed to seize the initiative from Dylain.

  Momentarily caught out, but always the sly snake, Dylain played along. “Yes, yes … you’re right; the rules are the rules. Let’s do this properly,” he said aloud for the audience’s ears, “before we banish you to the Forbidden Region.” And then muttered under his breath: “Or gut you like the little cheeky prick you are.”

  When he pulled out a parchment with a long list scrawled on it, I realised he had come prepared for everything. A wave of murmuring rose across the clans.

  “Silence! Order! You’ll want to listen to this,” he teased the hushed crowd. “Right,” he stared at me icily, “answer these questions. One, did you defend one of them against your own clan?!” He let the question ring around the ground before adding: “Did you protect our adversary against your own family?”

  The crowd was shocked and vilified, and Dylain expounded on my rescue of Shumbalic, claiming that I had made a pact with our mortal enemies. Clever! If I now accused him of forming an alliance with them, I’d look both stupid and vengeful.

  “So, answer the charge … let everyone hear your heinous crime. Did you defend one of them against your own people, the clan you’ve lived with for ten years?”

  I was trapped. Trying to explain myself wasn’t an option. I nodded.

  “What? Answer yes, or no! Did you defend one of them against your own kind? These alien devils against your own—”

  “Yes.” I had to shut him up.

  “Nooo!!!” bayed the riled masses, galled by my actions. “Traitor!” shouted someone. “Off with his head!” yelled another.

  Shawz’s voice, I think.

  “Order!” Dylain’s voice boomed, and when the crowd quietened down, his tone was cool and measured. “Let me finish with the traitor, this schemer, Scott’s murderer. Right! Number two. Did you kill Scott?”

  “No! I did not!” I said defiantly, kneeling upright. The flood of emotion even surprised me; the back of my eyes burned, and I fought to keep the tears at bay.

  A cruel, confident smile curled on Dylain’s face as he glared at me. “Ruzzell!” he called without breaking eye contact, and he rubbed his hands together with giddy delight.

  With his face blue and his left eye now swollen shut, Ruzzell lumbered forward and handed Dylain something small. For a second, the sunlight reflected off the object. Something metallic.

  “Oh, by the way,” said Dylain aloud, deftly holding the moment as his eyes swept across his audience, “if you’re wondering what happened to Ruzzell, the accused here violently head butted him this morning. But…”—he held the mysterious object aloft halting any reaction to my earlier act of self-defence, not giving me time to explain what happened—“…more importantly; in my hands, I hold a weapon. It may look small, but it is deadly.” He swung around to face me. “Tell me, Traitor; have you ever seen this before?”

  What? No! Rumbala?

  It was Shumbalic’s dart, the one she had shot at me, the one I couldn’t find. Ruzzell must have picked it up.

  Which is why he was happy to drop the issue when I explained Shumbalic’s escape. He had what he needed to implicate me.

  “Have you seen this before?”

  With my chest taut, I had to push out the answer. “Yes.”

  “There we have it. The murder weapon … found on the murderer this morning. Ruzzell, his clan leader, can testify to it. This traitor must have kept it as some sort of sick memento, or a trophy of sorts?”

  The crowd booed even though his
case against me was flimsy. When did Ruzzell supposedly get the weapon off me? Now, when he dragged me to the front? If so, how did they know it was the murder weapon? I knew, however, there would be no way I could appeal to any logic in the crowd. Duped by the hype, they were goaded on by Dylain’s henchmen, positioned among the crowd to spur the audience on towards their ringleader’s twisted objective.

  “This traitor has conspired against us. He has used the weapon of our mortal foes, but…” he pranced around on a snake-charm high, “…but how did he pull it off, you might ask. How did he get from his camp to Scott’s?”

  I knew I was out of options now; Dylain had thought of everything. I turned to look through the crowd, my eyes travelling over a sea of mad, furious faces looking for just one. A blur ... a raging blur ... before ... then I saw her.

  Gellica was on her knees, her face buried in her hands, her whole body heaving, sobbing. Nadalie consoled her, but the look on her tear-streaked face was damning against me. I couldn’t take her disapproval. No prizes for what you think, Nads. I turned back to face my accuser, sinking down onto my haunches.

  My heart sank at Dylain’s next words.