His spine crackles as he turns. Sprawled next to him, his companions remain unrestrained. The tiger riders must not find them much of a threat. They witness the funeral pyre. Beyond the bier Joe hangs restrained inches over a sled of bone spikes.
Don’t.
JC’s voice reaches inside his head.
He holds back his instincts to pounce. Even with her propensity for breaking telepathic law, she doesn’t directly enter another mind on a whim—better to trust her.
Reynard keeps his head down enough to not draw attention and continues to visually inspect the chamber.
Dancing warriors part, so the only one among with his hair uncut and feathered in vertical peacock plumage marches to the throne. He slams his shield in a groove of the throne chair. Scalps of his enemies dangle from his belt. Woven into his chest armor are dozens of blue opals. Leashed to his wrist, a final decoration hovers over his head. The parrot-sized lavender-furred dragon flaps its tiny wings. The adorable creature sticks out among such battle-hardened warriors.
They trade with off-worlders, JC thinks inside his brain.
The Halcary pain sticks and the tiny dragon prove interaction. Reynard wonders what he could offer to these warriors. His magnum remains in his holster, so they must not consider him much of a threat.
The chanting slows. Each warrior retrieves his shield and kneels before his king.
The spartan ritual continues with the thumping of shields on the ground and their repeated clanks together in the air.
Australia jams her fingers in her ears.
Reynard would guess this rhythmic sacramental beat warns the afterlife of an impending warrior. He’ll confirm his speculation with Australia. He needs her language skills. The universal translator fails to reveal what they warriors say. As the mantra becomes louder, Reynard’s concern turns to his sword brother and what will happen to him when the funeral ends.
From behind the throne emerges a green robed figure. Unlike the warriors, this shaman carries a staff with a large blue opal at its head. Woven into his robes are dozens of smaller opals. He raises his staff, and the chanting ceases. He swings the staff, leveling it at Leahla’s face. She struggles but all her strength fails to match one warrior. Two give her no quarter as they drag her before the king.
Reynard loses to his instincts as he leaps to protect her but finds himself crumpled into JC’s arms by the swift backhand of one of the warriors.
The green robed shaman waves a third warrior forward. A fresh plasma burn scars his chest.
The translator fails to understand the babbling warrior. Reynard guesses they are asking the chief to determine judgment, which he does with a single nod.
They drag the cadet to her feet. Leahla vomits profanities Reynard’s translator can’t handle. The king raises his bladed weapon. Not even the swift-moving Calthos fighters he faced under Joe’s tutelage moved as rapidly. Leahla’s body splits from her forehead to her hind quarter in a single motion.
The king reaches into her open chest and twists.
Squishy crunch.
He brings out her heart and bites into the tissue. He tosses the organ to the disfigured warrior. He eats the heart.
Reynard becomes lost in a haze before Leahla’s corpse slumps to the floor. No amount of training prepared him for this.
They just killed her.
No duplicitous trial.
No explanation.
No moment to allow her to prepare.
They ended her existence in barbarity.
Barbarity consumes Reynard’s mind. No logical thoughts prevail. He draws his magnum.
Before the barking thunder echoes through the chamber a new pain sends him to the floor. The cells in his brain separate and cook as if in a boiling pot. Through water-soaked eyes, Reynard notes the glow of the blue opals decorating the witch doctor. The wizard swings his staff at the crew. They deal with the same agony crippling his thoughts. He fights with his own shaking arms. Fingers wanting to claw his eyes out to remove the pain. The gun slips from his hand.
No!
The gun remains firm in his grasp. Some thought wants Reynard to fire on his own crew.
He revisits the urge, but the heat surrounding his head intensifies. Clear fluid drips from his nose. He discerns JC’s form through cloudy pupils. She stands firm. Raising her own arms in defiance she reaches out as if to place an invisible shield between herself and the shaman.
Telepathic.
These people must have telepathic capabilities but are untrained men. Males carry the recessive genes for telepathy. Only females develop the talent. Reynard shakes off those thoughts. They won’t help. He has to fight the swinging of his arm toward JC.
JC pushes back.
The shaman strains against a trained mind. Even with all her skills JC’s mental strength won’t push back forever. Through his watering eyes Reynard notes the three tear drop tattoos under her left eye glow with the same azure blue as the opals.
JC draws back her right arm before thrusting it forward. The invisible shove shatters the smallest opal on the breast plate. The shaman loses all concentration.
Nine-foot warriors step back.
Reynard’s brain cools. He swings his magnum aiming at the largest opal woven into the breast plate, guessing the polished stones must enhance telepathy.
JC steadies herself. If the shaman attacks mentally again she has no defense left. None of these men have seen anyone guard against their witch doctor. The warriors fail to hide shock from their ruler.
If he were to add support to JC’s wobbly knees, their deaths would follow any sign of weakness. Australia rises. Her knowledge confirms what he speculates, as she stands as straight as her five feet of thin height give her.
The king snaps his fingers, and guards scamper from the chamber.
Reynard contemplates they speak telepathically to each other but they seem so untrained as if their ability is new. They certainly haven’t applied the kinds of societal rules the rest of the galaxy follows.
He thinks, What do we do now?
Nothing.
JC’s one-word answer leaves him with no
