by Archer Swift
Chapter 46
“Xakanic, I challenge you!” I shouted as loud as I could; my heart thumped against my ribcage with such force I thought my chest would rupture.
I knew he heard me, and it seemed that many of those on tier one did, too. Some of the Royals scoffed; of course, only a Chief could challenge the Head Chief—and unless he had a death wish, no Chief would do so.
“Xakanic!” I yelled again. “Head Chief of the Zikalic, Ruler of Zika … I challenge you!”
“Ristan, what are you doing?” I heard Matthew’s baffled, tremulous voice behind me, but I screamed again. “Xakanic! Yellow-bellied, chicken-hearted coward … spoiler of this great planet! The self-appointed destroyer of all that’s beautiful in Paradise…” I kept talking, kept taunting, knowing the crowd was gradually tuning into my tirade. With bemused astonishment, I noted. Murmuring broke out around the arena like a sudden, freak storm.
And I kept babbling, knowing that I was infuriating Xakanic to manic levels—evidenced by his redder than red eyes, his twisted mug warped beyond all Zikalic normality. I kept insulting him, knowing that I was keeping him from ordering the release of the Sabres—his own pride couldn’t resist personally silencing me, his arrogance keeping him from letting a beast steal a pleasure he considered his.
What was that Zikalic insult he mentioned? Peratu…?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the Sabres gnash and gnaw at the barred portcullis with deranged savagery, rabid with bloodlust—the smell of our fear-riddled sweat thick in its nostrils, driving it mad with slobbering desire. The heart-stopping sight spurred me on. I picked up a handful of dirt and threw it at Xakanic. Of course, I was a long way off from his exalted position, but I hoped the action was both symbolic and offensive. It seemed to work, the murmuring of the crowd turned into hoots of bewilderment.
“Xakanic!” I continued at the top of my voice. “The freak ruler who keeps his own people imprisoned by fear; himself, terrified of the poorest of the poor, knowing his own rule is held in their hands. Xakanic has the heart of a Hog.” I spat, took a deep breath, and hoped to pull the accent off: “Xakanic is peratu biyame—”
“Silence!!!” The revolting Xakanic roared so loudly spit and spume showered down onto the arena floor, his facial features wiggling comically. An inconceivable hush enveloped the entire arena, my use of the Zikalic insult momentarily robbing multiple thousands of Zikalic of their wits. “You!” Xakanic was livid, indignant. Incensed. His head lolled on his shoulders. “You … defy me? You … dare insult me?”
I forced myself into a bout of wild laughter even though I was inwardly trembling like a feather in a windstorm. “You’re a joke! A freak! A coward! Peratu biyame!” I howled. “I, Ristan Abel, human being from the planet Earth, I challenge you … gutless Xakanic! Peratu biya—!”
“Silence! Silence! Silence!” He started pounding his own head with his massive fists; his feet stomping on their own accord. “Silence puny human! Silence!” And then manically enraged and out of complete control, he did something that I did not see coming.
Xakanic leapt from his throne, soaring high through the air, landing with a mighty thud on the dusty arena floor, his scimitar drawn and ready to shut me up forever.
And he might have cut me in pieces had the flummoxed gasp of sixty thousand voices not arrested his attention and stopped him in his tracks. “Geez, lucky guess,” I heard myself gasp aloud, temporarily stunned by his vacillation; so relieved that my guess work paid off, I just about wet myself. As the monster looked up at the myriad faces of his people; an anxious look crept onto his grotesque features for the first time. Pressing his lips tightly together, he lowered his weapon.
A frenetic fuss broke out on tier one, and I noticed the flustered, fat Zikalic, his flowing robes now twisted and ruffled, fumbling with his amphora. In a hasty muttering of gibberish, another Zikalic chant no doubt; he splashed liquid down onto the arena floor. His aura of pompous self-importance abandoned in a flurried rush-job of a Zikalic ritual. I could only guess that he was attempting to bless what he initially cursed. However, it was too late. Xakanic had already transgressed; Zika-protocol was evidently broken.
“Not allowed to set foot on the damned floor, are you?” I taunted him. “Isn’t this reserved for the doomed only?”
Zika’s Head Chief stared at me for an excruciatingly protracted length of time; his red eyes almost squint with rage, his tongue shooting out of the side of his mouth on automatic fire. If I could hazard a guess, I reckon he was utterly stumped; his deranged mind close to meltdown.
A stunned silence hung over the Great Arena like a thunder-heavy storm cloud. My innards coiled into a tight knot; my mouth felt tacky, and my heart galloped at a million strides a second.
With great effort, Xakanic tore his eyes from me and surveying the crowd, found his voice at last. “My … my people, my people…” he began in an attempt to calm the growing agitation among the Zikalic, his voice strained and croaky. “Good people of Zika, the puny human must die … at my hand. He has challenged me, and insulted me. I must respond.”
One of the Zikalic Chiefs—silver-haired, regal and striking—stood to his feet and removed his extravagantly ridiculous headwear. “Xakanic, he cannot challenge you,” he said, his voice measured and commanding, his English perfect, “he is not a Chief among us.” He then turned to address the audience in the Zikalic language.
“Quiet, Machiavelic!” said Xakanic acerbically, cutting him mid-sentence. “I know the law!”
Like an annoying little gadfly in the ear, I continued full pelt. “I challenge you, Xakanic; Head Chief of the Zikalic … peratu biyame, peratu—”
“Shut up! Shut up!!” he barked, his red-eyes so angry I felt I might burst into flames. “I accept your challenge. Today you die at my hand, and then…”—he twisted a creak out of his neck as his nostrils flared, and spat on the ground—“…then, I feed your people to Mizumba and watch them squeal for mercy as they’re torn apart. Every last one of them!”
“Xakanic,” interrupted Machiavelic, the stately male Zikalic of royal pedigree, “you cannot accept his challenge; it is against our law, and you have stepped onto the arena dust before it was—”
“Silence!” he snapped, his features wobbling violently. “I will create a new law. I am the Law … I am Zika! I can do what I please! Now, give the human a sword.”
Nothing, no one moved. Not a sound in the vast arena except the snarls of the three frustrated Sabres providing a disturbing background noise that kept everything on my body that could shake, shaking.
“Give the human a weapon. Now!”
I heard a whistle in the air, and a sword sailed down from the second tier; it bounced on the ground and came to rest at my feet. It was a small sword, only half the length of Xakanic’s. At first, I thought it was a joke, but when I looked up to check who had dropped it, I saw a young female Zikalic stand on the edge of tier two. She put both hands on her heart and blew me a kiss, her eyes sparkling green.
No way!
I gulped, my heart leaping into my throat.
Then another young female Zikalic from level two dropped a sword down to the ground and repeated the action. A young male Zikalic did the same. Then another female, and another male, and another … and another. Soon I was in danger of being killed by the slew of swords raining down onto the arena floor … for me.
“Enough!” said Xakanic, not sure how to respond to the outrageous show of support directed my way. His eyes narrowed, and his top lip rumpled into a gruesome snarl. “Choose a sword; hurry up, human!” He wiped the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am going to rip you apart limb from limb and suck the marrow from your bones.”
Alrighty, then. Here goes the shortest challenge match in Zika history.
I picked up the biggest sword I could find not sure what my next play was. I didn’t stand a chance, but I had to ride out a few of the blows he would deliver. That initial little rapier would have shattered on first i
mpact.
I heard a distressing upheaval behind me, my own people flayed by the drama; their nerves frayed down to shreds. Three hundred-plus restless bodies shifting on uneasy legs. Shrieks and squealing; prayers and gibbering; sobs and blubbering. But I knew there was no cavalry arriving to save the day. I was alone in this hand-to-hand battle to the death, trapped inside a churning cauldron of multiple thousands against an unhinged monster that I had zero chances against. None. Nada.
Xakanic roared, again spraying slaver in my direction. I roared back, but couldn’t produce a drop of spit. My throat was empty-tomb dry. I clenched my teeth at the lunacy of the moment. Seriously, I nearly giggled.
Then he jumped at me, swinging his huge sword in one motion, a supreme warrior. I managed to heft my weighty sword above my head just in time to block his. The flash of metallic sparks as weapons clashed burnt my vision and the loud clang resounded in my eardrums; the force knocked me flying backwards.
I was no warrior.
And no match for him.
With a heavy thud, I landed about ten strides from where he grounded.
Falling hard, the wind was knocked from me. I gasped and coughed just grateful I had hung on to the sword. Even so, I knew that this was the end; I had survived one swing of his scimitar. A second might be a swipe too far. The murderous glee on his twisted, repulsive face as he prepared to pounce upon me was too much to bear.
Oh, God. Please let my end be swift.
The shrill, high pitch screech of a young female was all that delayed my death. Who? Then I saw her. Shumbalic! Standing on the edge of tier one, with her fist raised, she shrieked again—I think she called out Xakanic’s name … and this time; she too leapt off level one.
How did you free yourself?
Sailing through the air, she landed on the sandy ground in a collapsed heap. The audience gasped again. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she had defied Xakanic to save me, or because she landed so heavily. All I did know was that her injured legs couldn’t take the jolt.
Shumbalic squirmed in agony, but muted her cry of pain. Clearly in a considerable deal of anguish, and showing immense pluck, she pulled herself to her feet and began to speak in the Zikalic language. Addressing the crowd, it was obvious that she was talking about Xakanic, and she held the captive attention of the entire stadium—doing more than enough to delay his final assault. Incensed, he snapped back at Shumbalic in his native dialect, and with a furious wave of his arms, he seemed to motion for her to leave the arena.
In return, she spat at him.
Go, girl!
Frustrated by her defiance, Xakanic waved her away and turned his attention back to me. I had used the distraction to get on my feet. Maybe I could fend off another strike. He started to move in my direction, snarling in the Zika-tongue, his face dogged. The raw emotion was gone. Cold and callous, he advanced. From behind him, Shumbalic—not to be deterred—hobbled towards him.
“No, Shumbalic!” I shouted as she tried to tackle him. He saw her coming and easily swatted her away with his massive left hand. She crashed into the dust, and the crowd rose to their feet. Every last Zikalic … on all three tiers. I remembered what Miltredic had said: striking a woman was an offence among the Zikalic people. Even for their protocol-breaking Head Chief. The Zika-audience had come to be entertained; they were getting more than they ever dreamed of.
I looked for Miltredic in the crowd. He was wrestling with the warriors who held him, trying to free himself from his bonds.
“Xakanic,” I kept the tempo white-hot, “you want me … here I am! Come on … you coward, striker of women!”
Unable to stomach me for a second longer, Xakanic roared again as he leapt towards me. I gritted my teeth and with two hands around the hilt, lifted my sword to meet his. The crash of metal on metal sent agonised shockwaves through my arms: crippling judders in my wrists, elbows, shoulders. I flew back once more, my sword swirling out of my hand. This time, I crumpled against the side of the arena wall, breathless and in pain. There was nowhere to go. Unable to move freely anyway, I’d twisted my knee in the fall. Against his ferocity and brute power, I was just a puny human.
Wasting no more time, Xakanic swooped on me; his left foot slamming hard on my chest, dispelling the last breath from my lungs. Pinned down and wheezing, I tried to offer some final resistance, but I had nothing left.
“Now you die, you annoying, irritating, infuriating, bothersome little germ!” His roar ripped through me, and then, taking a step back to give himself swinging space, he lifted the scimitar high over his head. Covered in slobber, I closed my eyes as tightly as possible and weakly called out to the God of my father.