He could barely muster the consciousness through the pain to see her hand, which had plucked up her companion’s weapon. The blow came swiftly and fiercely, and he narrowly managed to seize her by the wrist to stop it, biting back the pain lancing through his arm.
And still, the spike drew ever closer. She was spiteful in her attack, but aware enough of his condition to smile. She need only press until the pain became too much to bear. He, too, was aware of her advantage, but more aware of the vein that throbbed under her purple wrist. It pulsed, pumping all the blood she had into her hand, with an inviting wriggle.
Naxiaw was not one to disoblige.
Lips parted, head jerked, canines gnashed and the longface screamed. Her life came spurting out in short, sporadic bursts as the sword fell to the earth. Her other hand came up to strike his head with its heavy gauntlet, but he narrowly caught it before it could crack his skull open.
He had only given her frenzy a desperation that drove her to even more vicious strength. She continued to press her attack, her life leaking out with every twitch of her muscles, intent on driving him into the earth itself. She would succeed, he knew, unless he ended it quickly.
He eyed the spike on the ground.
Legs began to buckle under him, but he pushed up with them, springing off the ground and curling six long toes around her belt buckle. His other leg craned down, toes twitching eagerly, violently. The longface spared enough hatred to glance at them, her eyes going wide as she saw his foot grasp the spike by its hilt and, on a quivering green leg, bring it back up.
‘No!’ she screamed. Her voice grew louder as her arms pressed harder as the spike drew closer. ‘ No, no, no, NO! That’s not fair!’
‘ Shict n’dinne uah crah,’ he replied. Shicts do not fight fair.
His leg twisted; he ignored the cracking sound as he brought the spike up between them. He sucked in his belly to allow his foot to pass up, past his chest, the spike angling upward sharply and aiming for a writhing, shrieking part of her.
‘ CHEAT!’ she roared. ‘ I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL RIP OFF YOUR-’
His leg twitched. She stopped moving. He felt blood trickle down from below her jaw and smear his foot.
His leap from her falling body was less nimble than he had hoped; his shoulder stung and his legs buckled as he hit the ground. The fight had gone on too long, his body had taken too much of a toll. If they had been humans, he would have walked away whistling a tune. But they were … These things were …
He ran a hand over his bald scalp. He did not know. But he must tell the others.
He plucked up his stick from the earth. His canoe lay hidden in the reeds nearby. All he need do was reach it, row out until he could concentrate enough to reach the other s’na shict s’hathrough the Howling. From there, they could make it to friendly territory, the forests of the sixth tribe, maybe. They could deliver their report; Many Red Harvests would gain a new, purple crop to reap.
Yes, he told himself as the blood seeped out of his shoulder and sizzled on the ground, this will work. Everything will-
‘Interesting …’
No … no, no, no!
As fervently as he tried to deny them, as much as he tried to shut them from his sight, from his mind, every time he blinked and opened his eyes, they were still there.
A dozen long, purple faces, staring back at him.
‘A rather unique approach to combat, I must say,’ the one in the lead said.
If he didn’t know what the other ones were, Naxiaw might have thought it to be a female surrounded by burly, hulking males. The scrawny effeminate creature swathed in violet robes looked tiny against the sea of iron skins behind him. Only his goatee gave him away, the colour of bone instead of night like the hair of the females behind him, as he stroked it contemplatively.
‘It looks surprised,’ the female beside him snickered.
This one stood taller and more muscular than any of the ones present, carrying a massive wedge of steel hacked and hammered into a single, haggard edge. The smile she levelled at Naxiaw’s very visible shock was no less crude or cruel.
‘Oh, come on,’ she said, her laughter deep and grating. ‘You thought we only sent two up here? Who would do that?’
‘I am not sure it understands you,’ the goateed male said, leaning forward slightly. ‘I do not think it is even human.’ His face twisted up, puzzled. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘No idea,’ the large female said, hefting her giant blade over her shoulder. ‘Better kill it.’
‘I suppose.’
Naxiaw did not wait for the war cry, not the tensing of muscle or the groan of iron skin. He exploded first, charging, his stick held high, his plan a dizzy, swirling collection of images inside a head that swam from blood loss.
The male leads, he told himself. Kill the male. He looks weak. One blow. That’s all it will take. Kill him, break through, run to the water, drown. The others will find you, they’ll pull the map out of your stomach. Don’t watch the female. Watch him.
The male did not move at this sudden charge, instead raising a single white eyebrow. Had Naxiaw glanced to the side, shifted his eye half a hair’s breadth, he would have seen the females backing away. The fear that should have been on their faces was replaced with morbid bemusement, as though they expected something bloody and glorious to happen.
But Naxiaw did not see that.
Watch him. Kill him. Kill the male.
The male’s lips started to move, just barely, beginning as only a few twitches. His eyes shut, not with the tightness of panic, but with a gentleness that suggested some kind of boredom. His breath leaked from his mouth in faintly visible lines of mist.
Kill him.
The male’s eyes opened, milky whites gone and replaced with a burning crimson energy that poured out of his gaze. Naxiaw’s stick was up, feet off the ground. It was too late to worry about the crimson, too late to do anything about the inflation of the male’s chest as he inhaled deeply, too late to do anything but strike.
One blow.
But that would come far too late.
The male’s face split in half with the opening of his mouth; the mist poured from his throat on echoing words that bore no meaning to Naxiaw. The chill that enveloped his body, the frost that formed on his skin — those had meaning.
His feet struck the earth, far, far heavier than when they had left it. The blood crystallised in blackish smears, the healthy green of his skin turned quickly to a light blue. The Spokesman felt light in a hand gone numb. His muscles creaked, cracked under his skin. His jaw opened in a cry, of war or of fear he knew not, and he found he could not close it again.
Then he could not move at all.
When the mist cleared, he saw the male, eyes a disinterested white again. The longface glanced to the side, noting the Spokesman, a finger’s length from his head, and clenched in a frozen blue grip. Paying little attention to that, he reached out and plucked something from beneath Naxiaw’s broken nose.
‘Interesting,’ he muttered, regarding the tiny little crimson icicle. Separated from the shict’s body, it quickly became liquid, sizzling between the longface’s fingers. He hissed and shook his hand. ‘Envenomed blood … curious.’ He leaned forward and studied Naxiaw intently. ‘That may explain why this one is still alive, despite being frozen.’ He rapped a knuckle against Naxiaw’s forehead, smiling at the tinkling sound. ‘It is not a pink. They could not survive such nethra.’
‘Well, I could have told you that. I mean, it’s green.’ The large female chuckled. ‘No wonder you’re in charge, Yldus.’
‘Hush, Qaine,’ the male called Yldus muttered, his voice lacking her snarling ferocity. ‘Whatever it is, Sheraptus will want to look at it closer.’ He glanced over his shoulder to a pair of nearby females. ‘You and you, take it carefullyback to the ship. And do be careful not to let any extremities break off.’