‘This is where we will kill you,’ the apparent leader observed matter-of-factly.
Jon stared up at the thing’s face which was not only obsidian in hue but seemed to be carved out of actual obsidian. The ruby eyes stared back.
‘Why do you want to kill me?’ Jon demanded, ‘what have I done?’
‘That is a foolish question,’ the leader replied in its thin, whispery tones, ‘you have done nothing. We kill everything that comes out of the forest.’
‘And how many like me have come out of the forest?’
‘You are the first.’
Jon felt something sharp behind him and realised that his bonds were being cut off. Would there be a chance of escape?
He tried again. ‘But why kill? Why not work together – to’ – he searched for the word – ‘co-operate?’
The leader approached and pulled the rope over Jon’s head.
‘More foolishness. It is The Law that we must strive and pit our strength against others. To struggle with all our strength and finally to conquer – that is The Law.’
Jon glanced angrily around with lidded eyes. No – too many – they had formed a tight circle about him, each within their long arm’s length of him. So close that he could smell an acrid odour rising from their black bodies; it made him want to gag.
‘This Law – who gave it to you?’ he said, looking from emotionless face to emotionless face.
The leader placed a cold hand over Jon’s lips. It was like having a reeking stone pressed into his face. He spluttered under its pressure.
‘You ask too many questions. We do not ask questions here. We do what is required and what is required is to follow The Law.’
‘I don’t even know who you are!’ snapped Jon once the hand was removed. ‘Why should I follow your Law!’
‘We are the Lords of the Sands,’ came the whispering reply. ‘You need not know more as you will not be with us long.’
Jon gave up. The creatures were beyond reason. There was only one question left: could he take some of them with him into whatever lay beyond this mad Universe?
’How am I to die?’ he finally asked.
The leader pointed to the smallest of the five captors.
‘You will fight the weakest amongst us here in the place of death.’ The leader pointed at the central space as he said those words.
Jon’s eyes narrowed as he heard his sentence. The weakest amongst them? There might be a way out!
‘And if I defeat your weakest?’
‘You will fight the next weakest and so on until one is strong enough to overpower you. Then we will employ the Fatal Scimitar. It is an honour to have one’s existence terminated by that wonder. It is made from our finest Midnight Steel.’
Jon stared at the group of dispassionate murderers which were encircling him and felt a strange new emotion boil up inside like magma searching for a vent to the splintering surface. The emotion was hatred. He had known fear before as he watched the night predator ascend the tree towards him. He had felt anger when his throwing stick had missed a fleeing kabarra. He had felt joy as he had ripped a young one apart and gorged himself on the tender meat.
But hatred? This was new.
Whatever it took these fiends would not find him a trembling victim. He was no kabarra. And “Fatal Scimitar” – what did those words mean?
He tensed his muscular body and balled his fists.
‘And when do we begin?’
‘In the next time of light.’
As the leader uttered those words Jon realised that the light had already developed a purplish tinge.
Apparently, the ordeal was to be delayed.
Jon was taken into the nearest hut and fastened to the central pole. After some considerable time one of the Lords appeared carrying a flask and a shallow box. He left them on the floor of the hut within Jon’s reach who picked up the box and examined its contents. The Lord waited while Jon did his study, seemingly interested to see what his reaction would be.
The box contained some plant leaves and a brown, leathery object, round at one end and tapering to a thin tendril at the other.
Jon looked up. ‘What is this?’
‘It is a root of the (unpronounceable) bush. It is nutritious to us. It may be nutritious to you.’
‘You’re feeding me even though you intend to kill me tomorrow.’
‘Of course. Why should we wish to weaken you before combat? Our need is to test ourselves against strong adversaries, to know we have triumphed over a powerful and intelligent enemy. Anything else would be the way of the Degenerate.’
‘I am not your enemy.’
‘You are not one of us. Thus, you are our enemy.’
With that observation, the Lord terminated the conversation and strode out of the hut. Jon was left contemplating the root of the whatever-it-was bush. Knowing he had nothing to lose, he sank his teeth into it. It was tough, stringy and fibrous but he had had nothing to eat for a very long time and somewhat to his own surprise, he finished the entire thing.
The flask unsurprisingly contained water, a water which was just as unpalatable and rancid as the water in the pool. But once again he had no choice and drained the contents.
He sat there, chained to the pole with no way of escape and considered his options.
That didn’t take long as he didn’t have any.
Unless he could defeat every Lord in this encampment he would surely die tomorrow.
How strong were they in actuality?
He sent his mind back to the moment of his capture. He had been so stunned that he had not put up much of a fight as they tied him up. How strong had they felt then?
Not for the first time Jon considered the fact that the creatures of this world didn’t seem very well designed. Like the kabarras, these Lords had appendages that were apparently useless. Even the night predators hadn’t seemed that efficient as hunters.
What did it all mean? He must figure it out.
He felt certain that he would not be able to sleep while he pondered these mysteries but to his amazement he found that his eyes had closed and that there was purple light slanting through the open door of the hut.
The time had come. The Fatal Scimitar awaited him.
Almost as soon as that thought had burned through his brain two Lords entered and roughly undid his chain. He was dragged into the rapidly intensifying light and brought before the one he recognised as the Leader.
‘You will leave us now,’ that individual observed helpfully, ‘Here – this is your weapon.’
He handed Jon a blade of some wickedly sharp black ceramic that had been inserted into a skilfully carved handle.
Jon weighed it experimentally in his right hand. It was an excellent weapon, much better than his simple throwing stick. He glanced at the Leader – he was near enough for one killing up thrust.
The Leader read the message in his eyes. ‘Killing me now would not avail. You would only ensure for yourself a dishonourable and extremely painful and protracted death. But you may well face me, should you kill my weaker brethren. Now no further delays.’
With that a wicker gate was opened and Jon was thrust into the central arena.
He looked around, keeping low to the ground like the hunted beast that he was.
A Lord, marginally smaller than the Leader, entered through a gate opposite him. He too was armed with the wicked killing knife.
The two circled each other, gazing into each other’s faces. Jon was at an acute disadvantage for the only conflicts he had been involved with had been the death he handed out to fleeing kabarras, and they are not known for their ferocity.
Suddenly no more time for reflection. Like a bolt of jet lightning the Lord was on him, the knife sweeping up in an arc of death.