Decimate

by D. Fischer

  “This is their way,” he says simply without glancing at me. His attitude is standoffish like he’s dislocated from humanity in order to prepare himself for what’s to come. The skin above his cheeks is puffy with exhaustion and climate change, but at least, each wound he received at the Yoki’s is already healed.

  If Jaemes fails in his match with Ica, even gets knocked off the poor excuse of a raft, he will be eaten by the calimates, and there won’t be anything left for an elf’s funeral. The protective side of me feels he’s not grasping this, and I fight the urge to shake him with the truth.

  Turning, I feel my black wing clip the edge of the cliff, and a few rocks break away, dropping to the water with a plop. A female elf, no doubt Ica’s version of a wife, hands him his battle spear as Ica observes us under his long lashes. I stare back, holding his gaze. A challenge.

  Each member of the Uji tribe doesn’t have just one spear. They have many, depending on the circumstance. When I last saw Ica, he and his elves on the boat with Aiden and Eliza as hostages, each was holding a fisherman’s spear. By the looks of it then, they had been preparing to gather fish but had snagged hostages instead. I internally grimace at the memory. If we had been a moment too late, Eliza would be dead and decomposing in the belly of a calimate. Probably many bellies – the long and sharp-toothed snake-like fish would have fought over such a large meal.

  The Sandman takes a seat on a boulder to my right, and the three dwarves, who were once behind him, finger the rack of spears and jibber-jabber about the possible improvements as they normally do.

  Again, I fight the urge to protect, to shake the truth into the dwarves. The Uji’s don’t need improvements on their weapons. Making this tribe more dangerous than they already are would be foolish.

  I stalk the short distance to Sandy, my feathers rustling in agitation for the coming conversation I plan to have with him. Sandy, however, fiddles with his fingers, eyes downcast. His attitude lately has only worsened.

  Sitting on a boulder next to him, I visually sweep the cave. The walls are decorated with the skins of fish, and the rock floor has red sand scattered throughout. None bother to wipe their feet before strolling through their home. Kat would have a cow at this, the clean freak that she is, and a smile tugs at my lips with the thought. I miss her.

  A bed – more so a large cot – is at the far end and shadowed by the cave’s darkness. Skinned blankets, made from the predators in the water, are stretched across and shimmer despite the lack of light. I suppose the slick skin would protect from dampness in the air, and since it never gets cold here, they don’t need anything thicker.

  Ica grabs the rump of his woman, and no emotion passes along her face. It must happen all of the time, and she no longer notices. There’s no love there. Not true love. I bristle once more, turning my attention away and placing it on Sandy.

  “I can send you back, Sandy. I can place you in the care of Katriane if you want. You don’t have to stay here with me.”

  It breaks my heart to see him so lost even in the midst of familiar people. But the dwarves seem to be oblivious to his plight, seemingly more attentive to their childish desires for inventions and explorations.

  Without another word, Sandy abruptly stands and strolls over to the ledge I just left, perching his shoulder against the wall and gazing out across the land. His observation wanders to the forest beyond the water, to the storm that brews in the south.

  I sigh deeply and vow to send him back if this becomes too much for him. Sandmen are passive creatures, and though this one is formidable in his own survival, it is taking its toll on the man himself. He’s not meant to feel, and now that he does, his emotions are catching up to him. The death, the unfamiliarity, the shock of culture change . . . It’s my job to protect him, even from himself.

  A few minutes later, Jaemes and Ica are heading down the cliff to the small boat that waits to usher them to the raft. The dwarves, Sandy, Ica’s woman, and I stand in Ica’s cave entrance, and we gaze down. Each tribal elf does the same, ready to watch the match unfold.

  If Jaemes wins, I haven’t yet determined if Ica will yield or fight to the death. This entire tribe has me feeling uncomfortable, on edge, as if their adrenaline and wild ways of life are contagious . . . or a death sentence. There’s a reason their numbers aren’t large and their creatures are plentiful and plump. I vow to leave here as soon as possible.

  As Jaemes and Ica are escorted across the gently lapping water, the tribe begins their tune. Each beat strikes the end of their battle spears against their cave’s floor, hooting and hollering a practiced melody. Goosebumps riddle my skin, and my stomach twists in knots.

  Once beside the raft, Jaemes’s allows Ica to step onto it first, and Jaemes, with a straight yet relaxed posture, follows. The raft sways precariously with each scuffle onto it, dipping into the water with the burden of their weight.

  Before their escort leaves, Jaemes lifts his bow over his shoulders, then his quiver full of arrows, and tosses them to the boat. A calimate jumps from the water, trying to grab the objects midair but fails and splashes back to the depths. The weapons fall to the inside of the boat, and as I gape, my heart skipping a beat, the dwarves whisper in awe. The three don’t have an ounce of fear in them. Surprising, since they came from slavery and the wrath of Sureen if they stepped a toe out of line. Nally himself was a mess when I first met him outside the dome. Slap a dwarf into a realm of guardians, and they turn into a fearless species themselves.

  “What is he doing?” Sandy grunts with the same suppressed fear I feel.

  “He cannot fight in such close proximity with a bow and arrows,” the woman says, crossing her arms and glaring as though everyone should be born into realms knowing such things. Her voice is gentle, though, somehow more dangerous than her submissiveness portrays, and I blink hard at the sweet sound of it. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak, and naturally, my eyes sweep her from head to toe, assessing. Though her original posture screamed meek, I’ve learned looks can be deceiving.

  Her eyelids twitch, and each swallow she takes seems to be an effort for her. She’s nervous. When someone tosses aside their only weapon in favor of their fists, it means that this someone is more self-assured than the other who clings to a weapon. Though I applaud Jaemes for the confidence in himself, I also want to pummel him into the red bank for being such a fool. It’s one thing to do something that throws your opponent off guard. It’s another thing to leave yourself with only your body as protection against the sharp tip of a spear.

  The rumbling of weapons mashed against the floor comes to an abrupt halt, and I swivel back to the water. Jaemes, standing fully erect, his black hair whipping in a breeze, makes no move when Ica crouches and tips his spear in his direction. The space between them is only a tall man’s height, and the tip is mere feet from Jaemes’s abdomen. I tilt my head, considering. Perhaps Jaemes made the right move, knowing that wielding a spear in such a close proximity would be difficult to master.

  “Foolish man,” Ica spits, his voice echoing up to us. “Do you plan to defeat me with your ego alone?”

  Jaemes shrugs, keeping his hands loose at his sides, watching each shift in weight, each sway of the raft. “I’ve heard it’s large enough to do so.”

  I smirk at this and roll my eyes.

  Ica turns on his heal, sweeping his spear, and aiming at Jaemes’s calves. Jaemes leaps and lands completely centered on the raft. Ica swings again, and again, each time Jaemes ducks or jumps, avoiding the blow.

  With each swing, my nerves light with a fire, my body anticipating the blow. I clench my fists, sensing the power growing inside me to stop this before it’s barely begun. But I can’t. This is Jaemes’s fight. He must prove his worth, and it won’t be the last time he must.

  “More death,” Sandy mutters angrily. I ignore it. If it’s death that has him in such a mood, he’s going to have a rude awakening when we march to a war.

  Ica pulls back his free hand, and as he
does so, he thrusts his spear forward. The movement is so swift, so agile, that Jaemes’s barely catches the drive, and the spear imbeds in his thigh. Jaemes makes no sound, no cry of pain but, instead, grabs the spear’s shaft and twists with a grimace. The spear breaks from Ica’s grip, and using his other leg, he kicks forward. His foot connects to Ica’s abdomen. Ica stumbles backward and lands on his rump, swaying the raft.

  A calimate’s tail lashes through the water, splashing the two, taunting them.

  With a yank, Jaemes pulls the spear from his thigh, stares at the black blood that drips from the tip, and then tosses it to the water to be attacked by the creatures. He centers himself once more, using his weight to level the raft, and waits for Ica to gather himself to his feet.

  I grit my teeth. Attack! I scream in my head, willing the message to get to Jaemes. Of course, it doesn’t, and Jaemes waits patiently for his foe to rise.

  If it were me, I would have pounced while Ica was disabled, rocky raft or not. But it’s Jaemes, and he prides himself on compassion. And perhaps arrogance, too. He was right when he claimed his ego was a weapon – a weapon to be used against him. An emotional shield, too, if our brief history is anything to go by.

  Against the sway, Ica climbs to his feet and holds his fists out in front of him, protecting his abdomen. Something solid slams into the bottom of the raft, and both elves wobble before finding balance. I hiss between my teeth.

  Instead of waiting for Jaemes, he leaps forward, fist swinging. Jaemes blocks the blow with his forearm and uses the open space to punch Ica in the stomach where he had just kicked. Sandy winces when Ica’s grunt reaches us, the air whooshing from his lungs. Jaemes hits the same spot again. Then again. Then again. The final blow slams into Ica’s jaw.

  Ica’s head whips to the side, black blood spraying to the water, and he stumbles backward. The woman beside me raises a hand to her lips, and I startle in surprise as a frenzy begins below the surface. The creatures below the tide are fighting over the droplets of blood, and soon the clear water is murky with a hazy black.

  Jaemes roars to Ica, grabbing the leader’s hair and pulls his arm back once again. Ica twirls. The movement throws off Jaemes, and he releases Ica’s hair. Ica lunges again. This time, he fakes a punch to Jaemes’s face, and instead, goes for the clotting wound in Jaemes’s still injured thigh. I hear the crack from here, vibrating in the hollow space of the caves and the forest.

  I blink at the sound, and my insides clench against a hollow-like sensation, Jaeme’s leg gives out underneath him. His knee doesn’t have time to hit the raft. With an uppercut to the chin, Jaemes falls backward. One of the dwarves turns away from the scene. I don’t check who, for fear if I take my gaze away from the scene, it’ll mean Jaemes death. My teeth are gritting so hard I worry they’ll crack under the pressure.

  Ica’s tribe roars and the leader feeds from it, raising his hands in the air with apparent victory. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I fight the magic coursing through them, begging to be released, to protect one of my own. To protect my friend.

  Get up, you fool!

  Hands splayed across the rocky raft, Jaemes pushes his way to all fours, but Ica thrusts his foot forward, kicking him in the gut. Ica lifts his foot again and brings it down on Jaemes’s ribs. Jaemes grunts against the wood, I squeak, and Sandy turns to me.

  “Do something,” Sandy says, a thick plea.

  I swallow hard, meeting his gaze, but Ica’s woman interrupts, her hands still trembling in front of her lips. “She cannot. Doing so is a great dishonor. Her friend would never forgive her for interfering.”

  Perhaps, but if I don’t interfere, he’ll die.

  Ica’s voice carries with a roar of victory, and the breath seizes in my lungs. I whip back around, my toe pushing a few pebbles off the ledge.

  “You want me to yield, runt?” Ica yells at Jaemes. “You think yourself a victorious warrior? Before the fight had barely begun?” He swivels to the adoring crowd once more, a bloody grin spreading across his face.

  A cheek pressed to the raft, features facing the cliff, Jaemes’s eyes dart to mine. I breathe through my lips, slow, feeling like this is my first time taking a breath. He looks so vulnerable, so unsure of his next moments in life as if this will be his end. Ica won’t allow him to live. I just know it, and so does Jaemes. We share the eye contact for a moment, and I urge him through the silent communications of friends to keep fighting. To live. I nod, slowly, and he blinks.

  Jaemes’s face hardens, a warrior’s deadly, wordless declaration – a summoning of inner strength and resolve, and with Ica’s back turned to him, he shakily lifts himself on three limbs instead of four. His injured leg dangles, and he’s careful not to press any weight onto it. Swiftly, he turns and punches the back of Ica’s knee. The crowd silences. Utter quiet. Ica loses his balance, teetering, and Jaemes stands on his one good leg. Ica tumbles forward, but Jaemes grasps Ica’s throat and slams him backward with a roar that rumbles up the cliff.

  Ica falls with a thud, Jaemes’s hand still clasped around his throat. The boat’s end dips into the water, and the calimates chomp at the air. Quickly, Jaemes pushes Ica along the raft. Ica’s hair and horns inch closer to the ledge until the tips of his dark tendrils drape into the water. The sharp teeth of the calimates nibble at the strands, keeping Ica pinned with fear laced around every inch of his face.

  “You’re too much of a weakling to kill me,” Ica growls.

  Bending his head closer to Ica, and in a deadly calm voice, Jaemes says, “Don’t you remember? My ego is my weapon.” I almost didn’t hear it. If it weren’t for my heightened senses, I probably wouldn’t have, and with the curious glances of the dwarves, I understand they hadn’t at all.

  Ica squirms underneath Jaemes, his attention drawn to the sides of the raft where the water ripples with thrashing beasts. Below them, their tails beat against the bottom, rocking the two elves precariously. When the returning lurch of the raft works in his favor, Jaemes elbows Ica’s jaw, using the momentum for a hard impact.

  Blood sprays everywhere. With each whip of serpent tale, the raft creaks, and cracks. We hold our breaths, and blood roars in my ear. Jaemes punches again. And again.

  Face darkening at the last hit, Ica glares coldly at his opponent. Snatching his arm up, he grips Jaemes’s wrist, nails digging into skin. Jaemes inches him closer to the ledge again and bends near Ica’s ear, whispering. Ica’s eyes flick to the woman at my side, the woman breathing heavy under her hand. A blink, a grim lining of his lips . . .

  And that’s the last of his face we see. A calimate jumps from the water and, in one bite, snaps the head from the leader’s neck.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DYSON COLEMAN

  EARTH REALM

  Along the drive, Katriane and Irene hold a stream of idle chatter in the back seat of the SUV while Flint and I keep our focus on the road, barely speaking a word. My fingers have wrapped the steering wheel tight, afraid that at any moment, a hoard of vampires will skitter into the streets or barrel into the side of the car on our way to Katriane’s shop. They never do, and still, my posture fails to relax. Even when we park in front of the two-story brick building with a dark sign that reads Lunaire above the shop door and on both display windows, I can’t shake this feeling.

  “Ready?” I ask the group, gripping the car’s door handle as I turn the key. The car quiets, but the remembrance of the vibrating engine still tickles my thighs. I don’t wait for the answer and pull the handle.

  The faint smell of vampires wafts my direction as soon as we step out, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end at the reek of it. I scan the road, the tops of the surrounding buildings, the nearby alley entrances, but there’s not a single bloodsucker to be seen. Not a single set of red eyes peers back at me. Somehow, this worries me more.

  I look at Flint over the car. His glowing green irises stare back at mine before his wolf tucks himself back inside.

  “They’ve bee
n here,” he says, a growl accompanying each word through clenched teeth.

  I nod. The car exterior groans against my forceful grip, and I slam the door, using my anger to propel it.

  Katriane and Irene exit the car as soon as Flint shuts his, more softly than I did. They were waiting for chivalry, but they’re going to have to do without manners tonight. Trouble has found its way here and could very possibly be lurking around the corner of the building, tucked away in the dark gloom of an alley like the vermin they are.

  Giving me a questioning look that I ignore, Kat walks around me. Irene juggles the keys in her palm as her fingers search for the right one to slide into the shop’s glass door. She’s successful, and as soon as it’s unlatched, she pushes to door open and flips on the light. A bell jingles upon our entrance. When all four of us are through, Flint latches the door, and the closed and open sign swings, scraping against the glass and complaining about the late hour. Not that the locked latch would do much good. If vampires want in, all they have to do was break through the shop’s massive glass display windows. I rub the stress clustering above my eyebrows and sigh heavily through my nose.

  Kat’s shop smells of spices, ink and old paper, and stale coffee. The combination of scents doesn’t register with what I have tucked away for Kat’s aroma, and my wolf immediately perks inside me with interest while I observe the witchy objects and trinkets on display and the books upon books on dusted shelves. It’s like peering into her mind – or the mindset and passions she once had before everything changed.

  “I remember the last time we were in here together, Ira,” Kat says to Irene with a bright grin. She walks around the cashier’s counter made of glass and beautifully displayed pieces inside, perched on plush pillows and plastic holders. She flattens her hand and gingerly runs it along the spotless glass without leaving a smear of fingerprints.