Black Halo

‘Yes,’ Lenk squealed, ‘yes, yes!’

‘No!’ the voice countered with a chilling anger.

Lenk followed the creature’s yellow gaze past the gutted timbers and scampering crabs, onto the moist sand.

To the perfectly preserved indentation of his footprint.

‘Don’t move,’ the voice warned. ‘They haven’t seen us yet.’

‘Well, we can fix that.’

‘No! DO NOT-’

The voice’s command was lost in his laughter. Its control vanished in a fevered surge as Lenk rose to his feet. He spread his arms wide in a deranged welcome, his sword flashing in the sunlight and catching the attention of the creatures below.

From atop their heads, large crests fanned up. Lenk caught a glimpse of the many colours painting the webs of the green protrusions. Murals of blood and steel and teeth stretched from brow to backbone.

The obstinate one pointed a scaly finger up, opened its jaws in a shriek.

‘MAN-EH!’

‘Yes, yes!’ Lenk cried back. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, to the butchery! If you’ll just hoist those fancy-looking weapons, we can finally get down to the gritty process of spilling my guts onto the dirt!’

‘This isn’t your decision!’

‘You keep saying that, but here I am,’ Lenk replied. His eyes went wide as the leader unslung his bow, nocked and drew back an arrow in short order. ‘If it makes you feel any better, you can say it was your decision.’

‘Down, fool!’

It was not a suggestion. Lenk’s legs gave out the moment the bowstring hummed; he teetered backwards in time to loose a whining curse as the arrow shrieked just over his face. His hand seized up, clenching his sword as he tumbled down the dune and onto the beach.

‘No matter,’ he sputtered through a tangle of sand and steel, ‘no matter, no matter. I can still do this. It’s just going to be a bit messier.’

He felt the vibrations through his feet as he clambered upright, of legs thundering across the sand, long clawed toes kicking up earth as it shot toward him. He smiled, the same sort of grin he might have had for a fond relative, as he looked up at the ridge.

He did not have to wait long.

‘SHENKO-SA!’

The war cry came on the eruption of sand and a shiny emerald flash as the lizardman came leaping over the dune. For an instant, Lenk saw the majesty of his impending demise: the teeth glittering in the creature’s war club, the enraged circle of its stare, the tensing muscles in its body.

‘Oh,’ Lenk gasped, ‘this is going to be good.’

‘No,’ the voice uttered. ‘Fight.’

‘I don’t want to.’ The protest of Lenk’s voice was a sentiment not shared by his body, however, as his sword came up regardless. ‘I want to die.’

‘Fight,’ the voice commanded.

Refusal was mute against the creature, which slid down the dune in a cloud of sand and screams, swinging its club in wide circles over its head. Lenk watched the tattooed flesh, saw the mural painted on its crest foretelling his own bloody demise.

‘FIGHT!’

‘I don’t-’

Lenk did.

His sword jerked up spastically, was seized in hands not his own. The club sputtered a spray of splinters as it bit the blade, steel grinding against teeth. Lenk felt the shock rattle down his arm, shake his heart in his rib cage. Gouts of fire lanced his leg as he felt himself being pushed backwards.

Let it drop, he told himself. Let the sword drop and let him smash your head in. You won’t even feel it. Then all this will be over.

Against this, his body had one reply.

‘Fight.’

‘I said I won’t!’ Lenk shrieked back.

‘Man-eh shaa ige?’ the lizard snarled.

‘I wasn’t talking to you!’ Lenk roared

The lizard’s body twitched in response. It slid backwards, breaking the deadlock as it spun about wildly. His dumbfounded stare lasted only as long as it took the creature’s tail to rise up and smash against his jaw.

A heavy blow, but not enough that it should make him as dizzy as he felt. He reeled, feet giving out beneath him. The world spun into darkness, banishing his opponent and his body. He did not strike the earth as he fell, but tumbled through, twisting in the dark.

‘This is it, then?’ He heard his voice echoing in the gloom as a gasp. ‘This is what it is to die?’

‘No,’ the voice answered.

The world came rushing back to him in new eyes. The sand was soft. His sword was clenched in his hands, his hands. The club crashing down upon him was slow, weak. He stared up at what had been his enemy. What he saw was a corpse waiting to fall.

‘This,’ the voice said, ‘is what it is to kill.’

‘SHENKO-SA!’ the lizard screeched.

Lenk’s sword replied for him. There was no shock, no strength behind the lizard’s club as it met his blade. Or if there had been, Lenk did not feel it. He could barely feel anything, even the foot he rammed into his foe’s groin. The creature merely hissed, recoiling with composure unbefitting the injury.

That was unimportant. The earth was unimportant. He rose to his feet, easily. There was weeping from his leg, he knew, but he could not feel it. It was cold in his veins, cold as the steel he raised against his foe. From the corner of his eye, he caught his own reflection in the weapon’s face.

Two blue orbs, burning cold and bereft of pupils, stared back.

That was wrong, he knew in some part of him that faded with every frigid breath. His eyes should have pupils. He should feel hot, not cold. He should fear the voice, fear the chill that coursed through him. He should scream, protest, fight it.

He stared at his opponent over the sword.

No more words.

They sprang at each other, arrows of flesh in overdrawn bows. Their weapons embraced in splinters and sparks, crushing against each other time and again. He could only feel the metallic curse of his sword as it searched with the patience of a hound for some gap in the creature’s defence. Every steel blow sent the lizardman sliding back, every breath grew more laboured, each block came a little slower.

Only a matter of time, Lenk and his sword both knew. Only a matter of time before a fatal flinch, a minuscule cramp in the muscle, something that …

There.

The lizardman raised its club, too high. Lenk’s sword was up, too swift. The creature’s eyes were wide, too wide.

Then the sword came down.

Skin came first, unravelling like paper from a present. Sinew next. Lenk watched as the cords of muscle drew taut and snapped as lute strings too tight. Bone was sheared through, cracking open to expose glistening pink. There might have been blood; he was sure the creature’s arm hit the earth, but didn’t stop to look.

The lizardman looked up, mouth agape, eyes wide as it collapsed to its knees. It mouthed something that his ears were numb to. Threats, maybe. Curses.

All silent before the metal hum of Lenk’s sword as it came up.

No more words.

The sword slid seamlessly, over the arm that came up too meagre to serve as any defence and into the