10. Xandor
Chapter 10
Xandor
Red
I awaken from troubled dreams with a start, groaning as I realize my treacherous body betrays me once again—I’m unable to move. The white collar around my neck glows orange, the color of submission perhaps worse than the torturous red. At least with red, movement is possible.
Scanning the small, sterile room fills me with ominous dread. A windowed section looms above, housing some sort of observation station. In the corner stands a towering robot, its attachments confirming my worst suspicions. Each of its limbs carries a multitude of surgical devices, saws, knives, and other unknown tools of various shapes and sizes. Enough to make Mob jealous with envy.
The sight of it fuels my desperate rage. My eyes stoke with Rush, refusing to succumb to the imminent, horrific torture. I roar in defiance, straining with all my might, as wisps of gold leak from my eyes. But there is no resistance to overcome, just an absence of movement, as if my muscles have been completely disabled.
I snarl at this affront to the Gods, lamenting the bitter fate I must endure—not even a proud warrior’s death. My honor is not to die valiantly fighting overwhelming odds, but to resist breaking against unending torments.
I draw my eyes to my body, which despite the disabling collar has metal straps bound around my ankles and wrist, attached to a standing table. Straps instead fasten the ruined remnants of my left arm. To my chagrin, I am stripped of all my armor and clothes, leaving me naked and exposed.
Bright orange lights emit a low hum, creating an eerie silence in the tense room. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I resign myself to my fate, praying I possess the strength to not bring dishonor to myself or my ancestors.
This room could be mistaken for a medical lab with its observational equipment and surgical robot. But my nose wrinkles with the faint, almost imperceptible smell of sweat and blood. It clings to this room like wispy spirits of suffering, a sinister promise of my fate.
Will they seek to interrogate me or inflict impotent revenge upon my flesh? The questions swirl in my mind, fueling my anxiety. The waiting, the not knowing, is almost unbearable. I force myself to delve into deep meditation, seeking refuge in the fortress of my mind.
My eyes flick open at the sound of a door swooshing above. In the observation area, two Nebians enter. One is the Praetorian Prefect, still wearing his golden segmented armor but now without his purple cloak. The other a short, bloated Nebian with shifty eyes, wearing a translucent polymer floor-length coat with a mechanical device over one eye.
Our eyes lock, and I see no trace of a soul in those dead eyes. I resist the urge to speak, knowing the likely result will be the same as last time. The Prefect wastes no time, taking a seat with his legs crossed. “I am Horaxus Domna, Prefect of the Praetorian Guard,” he states with a quick, level tone. “My colleague here is Decimux Sulla, Magister Scientiarum,” he gestures to the squat, brown-haired and bearded Nebian.
The scientist makes no acknowledgement, busying himself with a terminal console I can’t see. “Now, why don’t you begin by telling us who you are and what your purpose is?” The Prefect asks, tapping his boot against the floor.
“Xandor, Second to Clan Draxxus,” I rasp, keeping my words brief due to the singed state of my throat and lungs from yesterday’s events. “I came to forge an alliance between our peoples.” The words seem absurd now, given my treatment by these supposed allies .
The Prefect frowns. My collar switches to red, and the familiar flaming torment emits from within, twisting my guts with useless rage and agony. Snarls of suffering leave me as I attempt to recoil, to escape the inescapable pain, but the restraints hold me solid. The Prefect taps his foot, watching with cold indifference.
“Yet you came with the fallen Scythians, hoping to slip past our defenses.” The Prefect glares with hollow eyes. “Now I ask again, what were your orders? Who were your targets?”
The collar switches to orange, bringing a merciful release from the agony. I take gulping breaths, recovering from the shocking pain, my mind fumbling for a response. “I came to forge an alliance—”
Roaring agony cuts me off in an instant as the Prefect tuts, somehow setting the collar to red with a mere thought. “I see you’re a stubborn one, but you will tell me what I wish to know,” he declares, inspecting his stubby fingernails. “Everyone does,” he promises with a flicker of a smile.
The truth condemns me to a torturous end.
But between bared fangs, wracked by an internal inferno of suffering, I choose to speak the truth. “The Scythians attacked us, too. That’s why our ship was so heavily damaged,” I manage to squeeze out in a rush of pain.
“A likely ruse.” The Prefect waves a dismissive hand, “Your masters underestimate us. They always have. But we adapt and overcome because we are superior to them.” The collar switches to orange, allowing me to catch my breath and my muscles to loosen from the rupturing strain. “So, where are your terms for this... alliance?” he lingers on the last word as if it’s foreign.
My eyes dart to my ruined arm, a sense of hopelessness washing over me. “Seems I’ve misplaced my wrist console, but the others—”
“How convenient,” the Prefect interrupts, as the collar shifts to agonizing red, stiffening my spine with murderous torment. “Let’s keep this brief. What were your orders? Who were your targets?” The repeated questions already grate like claws on rock.
My vision swims, carried away in a current of crashing agony. But I grit my teeth in stubborn resolve. “FORGE. AN. ALLIANCE!” I shout the words through jolting spasms.
“Come Decimux.” The Prefect sighs before standing. “Let this one contemplate the error of his ways.”
The scientist waddles after him as they both exit the room. I almost call out to him, to beg him to turn off the collar, but my pride stops me. Dread mingles with the agonizing current pulsating through me, threatening to rob me of my sanity.
Tremors send me squirming against my bonds, driven by the frantic need to escape this torment. My mind spins in a panic, clutching for any way out of this pain, fearing what it might reduce me to if left unchecked. I roar and shout, desperate for any release, but the agony blazes hotter, as if feeding off my suffering.
My tongue rests beneath my fangs, knowing I could end my agony. It’d be easy, a simple act to end the torment that surges within. A quick bite, puncturing the flesh and I’ll bleed to death in mere moments. Before I press down, I’m jolted by thoughts of Tyrxie, which come unbidden like bolts of lightning.
I can feel her somewhere in Nebia. The thought brings fleeting happiness, immediately swallowed by agonizing flames. Gods, I hope she cannot feel this through the bond. Wishing with all my heart to spare her from such suffering. I’m thankful the bond is content, meaning my Tyrxie must be safe, having escaped such a terrible fate.
Isn’t it enough to know she’s safe, so I can rest easy with the ancestors? Then, I remember the joy on her sweet face when I promised to show her Earth. The memory causes me to relinquish my plan, although it may cost me everything. If a flicker of hope remains, I will hold on, no matter the cost.
Suffering cascades through my body, tensing my muscles and tendons to the brink of bursting. My tormentors have only been gone mere moments, yet each second feels like an eternity. I struggle to take a deep breath, as every fiber of my being is heightened with frantic desperation. But I persist, closing my eyes and grasping for a calming center.
The emptiness I seek is fleeting. Each jolting wave of scorching agony pulls me away, but with deep breaths and focused determination, I continue my pursuit. Cursing myself for not spending more time cultivating Mura-Tok before it was so sorely needed. The meditation ritual which is taught to all Klendathian warriors allows a state of supreme calm as the mind vacates the body.
Finally, the Gods are merciful as I lock in my focus, finding the center I desperately need. My mind feels empty, drifting off into a void of blissful nothingness. I have only the vaguest sense of my body shaking somewhere below, somewhere distant, while a dull flicker of pain bangs against my fortress of solitude.
Time passes in a blink of an eye, as I float through the emptiness, taking deep breaths and not daring to break the trance. How many hours have passed? The shocking realization hits me that my tormentors intend to break me beyond the point of insanity before their return, assuming my body doesn’t rupture.
Many more hours pass before the observation door swooshes open. I almost don’t notice, with my eyes closed and my senses distant. Only the absence of the dull pain clawing to pull me back to reality prompts me to open my eyes to see the collar is now orange. The two tormenting Nebians stand atop the observation room, watching with critical eyes.
“Decimux, his vitals?” The Prefect demands with a hint of heat in his voice.
“Hmm,” the doughy scientist begins, looking towards his blue glowing terminal, “The beast’s vitals remain strong, Prefectus,” he answers in a soft voice.
“Curious,” the Prefect drawls, almost disappointed. “So, Klendathian, tell me. What were your orders? Who were your targets?” He asks, turning toward me and seating himself.
A conditioned anxiety surges through me at the hateful questions and the pain the answer brings. But I force it down, locking such petty concerns into a cage of unbreakable resolve. “An alliance,” I rasp through singed lungs and battered body.
“I see.” The Prefect sighs, tapping his foot, yet a treacherous joy wells within me that he didn’t activate the dishonorable collar. “Perhaps the error lies with the questions,” he postulates with a stubby hand beneath his chin. “How do the Fallen make contact with your people?”
The Fallen? Does he mean the Scythians? “They only spoke through War Chieftain Gorexius,” I answer, thinking this was already common knowledge.
“Spoke?” The Prefect asks, leaning forward in his chair. “Not speak?”
I almost laugh at his ignorance. “The War Chieftain is dead, killed by High Chieftain Krogoth in the rite of Krak-Tok.” Even here, my heart swells with pride at the telling, remembering my old friend’s glorious victory.
The Prefect shares a look with the scientist, a silent question passing between them. “The beast speaks the truth, Prefectus.”
“Gorexius is dead...” The Prefect whispers, mulling the thought over with an expression that could be considered relief. “The barbarians do to themselves what we could not.” He shakes his head before continuing. “So, this... Krogoth, does he now contact the Fallen?”
“No,” I shoot back. The very idea is an anathema to Krogoth. “The High Chieftain seeks to break our alliance with the Scythians in favor of your people.”
“Don’t waste what little grace you’ve earned savage.” The Prefect frowns before continuing. “This new leader, this Krogoth, takes orders from the Fallen. They sent you here to attack us, didn’t they? Confess!”
Anger flares within me at his blind refusal to heed my words. “My only confession is my stupidity is trusting in the honor of Nebians!” I roar back, already feeling the scorching blaze of the red-lit collar pulsing through me.
“You speak of honor... You who attack our homes, our females and children like a backstabbing assassin!” The Prefect yells back, leaping from his chair, his scarred face twisted in fury.
Agony tears through me, forcing my fangs out, seeking with desperation for the soothing mediation that saved me before. “Prefectus, if I may?” the scientist interjects with a raised hand.
The Prefect takes a deep breath, nodding towards the plump Nebian. My collar blinks to a merciful orange, allowing me to gasp for air as sweat drips from my face. “You recognize this beast?” he asks, clutching my warvisor in his hands. “How does it work?” My fury burns at his question as if he has the right to know and not be slaughtered for such sacrilege.
“You put it on,” I say with an acidic tone, knowing full well it’ll never heed the faithless or the weak.
I watch in amusement as the scientist attempts to place the warvisor on. It engulfs his entire face, swallowing his head and upper chest. “Nothing’s happening,” he declares, standing upright, only for the device to slip off and clatter to the floor.
The Prefect tuts and I laugh. “Your head’s too small. You lack the brains,” I mock, knowing his type—arrogant scholars have the most fragile egos.
The scientist blusters. His face turns a deeper shade of blue. My collar switches to red, and scorching pain stiffens my back and steals my breath. Yet I let the agony carry me into manic laughter, deep and bitter, understanding that no matter what I say, my words will not be heeded, and my fate is to die a slow, agonizing death.
“Prefectus, I request permission to remove the beast’s tongue,” the scientist demands, brimming with indignation as he waves my warvisor toward me.
“That would hardly serve my purposes, Decimux,” the Prefectus replies with a languid turn of his head, frowning at his colleague. The spine-chilling delivery of his words mingle with the blazing agony, solidifying the cruel certainty of my future. They will take me apart, piece by piece, leaving behind nothing but a ghost trapped in a dying body, tethered by pain.
Gods give me the strength to endure.
The fragile one turns to me with a sneer. “What about the beast’s genitals? I long to study the origin of their rage ability. It may lie within the sexual organs.”
Suppressing a surge of terror at his words, I am overcome with a mania that only intense suffering can bring. “You long to possess a real male’s cock, instead of that shriveled stub you Nebians carry.” My words echo out propelled by half-mad bravado and pain.
He recoils as if stuck with a slight tremor that pales in comparison to my own torturous spasms. The fragile one’s reaction fans the flames of my laughter. “I... I. Prefectus, it may make him more... agreeable.”
The Prefectus grimaces, studying me with a hand under his chin. I can feel his soulless eyes silently weighing me, the fate of my genitals hanging in the balance. The absurdity of it only stokes my frantic amusement, knowing no matter what he decides, eventually I will lose everything.
“No, the last barbarian died after that procedure,” the soulless one declares after a moment that feels like an eternity. “Continue with the questions for now.”
May you rest with the ancestors, my unknown brother, in pain.