17. Xandor
Chapter 17
Xandor
Audience
D agdorix grant me the strength to defeat my enemies, and may Ecneius grant me the wisdom to divine the correct paths.
The prayer to Ecneius comes instinctively, a God seldom invoked by brothers of Clan Draxxus. But it feels right—his gift of enlightenment swells within me, almost overwhelming my senses.
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. Countless forewarnings flood my mind, each one crucial. One mistake, one misstep spells disaster. It’s at this critical moment the chances of failure are at their highest.
“You’ve got this, Xandor.” Tyrxie smiles up at me, placing a comforting hand on my wrist, inflating my heart to bursting. “I know you’ll come back to me; you always do.” She nods with beautiful reassurance.
I lean down to kiss my love’s forehead, enjoying her warmth and softness—a contrast to the hardness that I must unleash. “I’ll see you on the other side. Remember, stick close to Quad,” I caution, turning back to the immense opulent door. “Stand back, now.”
My companions step back amidst the vibrating, rumbling backdrop. Already I summon my fury, my Rush, knowing what must be done. My eye spills forth my golden wrath, a physical manifestation of the blood boiling in my veins. My sinews tighten, and the universe snaps to focus with unbelievable clarity.
The immense door creaks loudly as I push it open, revealing an enormous room, dazzling with bright blue lights from the ceiling in the image of one of the Nebian suns. The ceiling itself is a masterpiece, lifelike artistry detailed frescoes depicting Nebian victories and legendary figures.
It’s a shocking contrast to the numerous fearful faces huddled behind makeshift barriers and hasty defenses. The silence is deafening as I approach, the sound of hushed breathing and the slap of my bare feet upon a glorious marble relief echoing out. I activate my laser sword, holding it before my face. It hums ominously, mixing with the blue light to cast shades of purple over the opulent walls.
One.
“It’s a Klendathian!” A frightened voice states the obvious.
“Hail!” I snap back with a smile. Yet they don’t appear thrilled to see me, quite the opposite as they level their laser rifles and heavier entrenched repeater lasers at me.
Two.
“Protect the Imperator! For the twin suns!” A gruff voice calls out. Already my mind burns with the trajectory of too many attacks, each variation bleeding into exponentially more and more iterations.
Three.
The room flashes with reds and purples, the laser beams slicing through the air towards me. I dash to the left in a golden blur, taking cover behind one of the four immense crystal pillars at each corner. The zaps and buzzes ring out, striking the walls behind where I once stood a heartbeat ago.
Four.
Pelting lasers, as numerous as the rain on a stormy day, bombard the crystal pillar. The room fills with smoke, the acrid scent of singed arcweave and melted crystal, reminiscent of sulfur, wrinkles my nose.
Five.
I need to draw them further to the left! The barrage of blasts stops, leaving an eerie silence. With a deep breath fanning my Rush-enhanced muscles, I dash out from my cover, drawing the ire of my squat opponents, their terror obvious by their hasty, inaccurate shots.
Six.
Closer now, the laser strikes are harder to dodge despite their languid speed. My Gods-touched mind tells me I’ll evade many, but some will still bar my path. Nearing the forward pillar on the left, several accurate leading crimson blasts approach, standing out in a sea of wasted shots. Closing my eye, I sense them coming like dancing embers fluttering through the air. My sword lashes out with blinding speed, cutting my supposed death to ribbons.
Seven.
I thud into the pillar, placing my back against it, knowing I’m almost close enough now. “What the bloody void is happening?” a frightened warrior calls out, his voice almost close enough to stab now... “It can’t be killed, sir!” rings out amidst the lessening blasts.
Eight.
I can smell their fear. It swirls with the sulfuric mix of the others, creating a heady blend, eliciting a fanged smile. “Step aside, tiny warriors, I must speak with your Imperator!” I shout, knowing the disappointing response, but posterity demands the asking.
Nine.
“Never, barbarian slave!” The gruff voice snaps back, followed by more zaps and buzzes, drilling into my crystal cover. I sigh, bounding from the pillar with impossible speed and strength. My purple-armored opponents are close now, their horrified faces obvious. My power carries me into the far corner in an instant. The warriors, now orientated away from the door, struggle to keep up, blasting haphazardly, addled by pungent terror.
Ten.
I hope Quad hasn’t messed up the count!
I dodge many laser blasts, the premonitions guiding me as my sword arm lashes out, slicing through the accurate shots—denying death, accepting life. At the edge of my hyper-enhanced Rush awareness, I sense the entrance door bursting open.
“Big boomer bashing!” Quad yells with pure crystalline joy, heralding our imminent victory. His simple voice has never sounded more glorious. The noise of a wheel spinning followed by the deafening thud of blinding zaps rings out, lighting up the entire room in pulsing crimson.
I dance among the chaos, flowing through the languid blasts of my enemies, slicing others in a whirlwind of blurring movement. My Rush reaches a crescendo as I flirt with death, each action is precise—ordained perfection. The finest Klendathian artistry the universe has ever witnessed, blessed by the Gods—I soar as a demigod, their will incarnate.
It comes as a surprise to my distracted opponents when their makeshift cover is blown away in a shower of thick, pulsing laser blasts. Some turn with fresh shock and horror on their faces, only to observe their imminent defeat. To my superior senses, it takes a while but to my weakling prey, only a few fleeting heartbeats before they’re all laid low, mercifully stunned amongst the debris and hazy purple smoke.
As suddenly as it began, the glorious madness stops, punctuated by an eerie, foggy silence. The faint sound of Quad humming his favorite bashing tune reaches my ears in the distance. My Rush dissipates, and I’m surprised to find myself greedily gulping in deep, exhausted breaths. I lean on my deactivated sword, having pushed my body to the limit.
“Xandor?” Tyrxie’s soft voice banishes the silence with concern. “Xandor?” she repeats, her intensity increasing despite the distance.
“I’m over here, my sexy little puffrio,” I rasp out between strained lungs, the post-battle euphoria carrying me away in an ocean of whimsical bliss. “In the corner.”
I see her coming through the purple mist, her silhouette feminine perfection—another gift from the Gods. “Oh, thank the stars!” she exclaims, her concern shifting to a beautiful expression of emerald-encrusted elation. “Are you hurt? Do you need me to heal you?” she pats me down as if checking for weapons.
“I’m fine. Never better.” I straighten at her touch, not wishing to portray weakness—the weakness that lurks within, filling me with dark, dishonorable shame. “They were no match for my skill.” I gaze into her mesmerizing eyes. “Thanks to you, I reach new heights of power. No one will ever hurt us—you—again!” I say with more heat than intended, shaking my sword with unbridled fury.
A flash of unease creases Tyrxie’s face, soon concealed by an averted gaze. The minute movement twists my heart, longing to see her happy and safe, not wishing to frighten her. “Xandor... I just want you to be safe,” she gestures to the band of fallen Nebians near the audience chamber door. “This was far too dangerous, even for you.”
She doesn’t understand the life of Klendathians—we who mock danger.
“Your concern for me warms my heart, my beautiful soul,” I say to her, scrunching my face as I try to reconcile the conflicting outlooks. “Come, it’s time for us to bring peace,” I add, dismissing the unanswerable conundrum.
“Peace!” Felixus scoffs, scanning the chaotic room with his mouth agape. “I think this constitutes a coerced settlement if I’ve ever seen one.” Yet he doesn’t know the half of it—there’s more coercion required.
I frown at my grumpy friend, “Says the one who agreed to help only moments ago.”
“True enough,” Felixus has the grace to avert his gaze, realizing his hypocrisy. “It’s one thing speaking the words, another seeing the aftermath.”
The sentiment of the inexperienced warrior.
“I gave them a chance to let me in peacefully, but they only replied with slander.” I shrug, feeling no remorse, feeling the opposite: these so-called warriors are lucky to keep their lives. “Let’s call it aggressive negotiations, then,” I add, smiling.
By all rights, they should have their heads shaved—a reminder to everyone of their shame.
The fortress falls silent, lacking the rhythmic thudding that has persisted since my awakening. It means the Nebians have broken through the first layer of defenses. Now only the inner security systems, doors and Mods nerve gas hold back the tide.
Mod, Job and Hyanxa charge into the decadent room, right on time, the path to victory still shining brightly. They double over, catching their breaths, their gazes looking on in awe at the collection of fallen Nebians.
“Hello!” Quad booms, his beaming smile splitting his face. “You missed best bashing ever!” he declares in eager excitement, shaking his giant laser cannon.
“I can see that.” Hyanxa frowns at the pile of unconscious guards. “They’ve breached the outer defenses,” she confirms, glancing at me.
“Sneaky Nebians override central control. I held for long as I could. Yes?” Job interjects, filling me with a sense of urgency.
The potential future paths flicker in my mind’s eye, causing me to frown. “Get those defenses up,” I gesture to the smashed makeshift debris, noticing the useful heavy repeater lasers. Everyone except Mod moves to obey. “You’re with me, Tyrxie.” I urge her to stop.
“They have communications back, which means every guard already in the building will be on their way here, soon followed by their entire forces from the outside,” I state, watching Quad set his heavy cannon down to toss piles of arcweave and heavy ornate furniture around. “You must hold them here until aggressive negotiations can be concluded.”
“Voiding brilliant.” Hyanxa grimaces, moving with hastened speed, adjusting the laser repeaters towards the entrance.
“More bashing!” Quad exclaims, the only smiling face amongst the angst-ridden others.
“We use stunted mammaloids as fleshy shields? No?” Mod asks, with a rushed tone, gesturing to the fallen Nebians.
Not the worst idea, if peace wasn’t the goal.
“You’ll do no bloody such thing!” Felixus shouts, struggling to turn over an ornate drawer.
I suppress a smile at the sight of Felixus’s righteous indignation. “Mod, no shields,” I say firmly. “Remember, we come to bring harmony as warriors of peace.”
Felixus mumbles something about me being blockhead under his breath, while Hyanxa rolls her eyes. I laugh, my heart soaring with anticipation for what lies ahead—not just for me, but for this band of misfits. It’s a curious twist of fate that so many lives—lives of my Klendathian brothers—should rest upon their shoulders. Can they bear the weight?
“Fight with honor, my war comrades! Let them taste your wrath as your hearts soar with righteous fury. Know that what you do here will echo in the annals of history. Where a courageous few stood against many in the name of a noble peace,” I roar, trying to bolster their spirits, carried away by the moment’s magnificence.
They pause, entrenched behind the makeshift defenses, fire blazing in their eyes. Good, they’ll need all the bravery they can muster. “I hold them back for you, Scary!” Quad booms, leveling his massive laser cannon toward the entrance.
I turn to smile at Quad. “You’ll bring honor to your ancestors,” I say with certainty, seeing the futures of Quad standing with glee, raining crimson fury upon many Nebians. “Come, my love,” I beckon with a final nod towards Tyrxie, moving to stand before the immense decadent door that mirrors the entrance. “We shouldn’t keep the imperator waiting,” I add, smiling.
Tyrxie gives a solemn nod, tightening her grip on her laser rifle. With a grunt, I push against the heavy door, which creaks open under my strength. Hushed, frightened mutters reach my ears from within. The cowards cower in fear while their betters fight to protect them—lucky for the weaklings, we come seeking peace.
I wrap my arm around Tyrxie’s delicate, petite waist as we cross the threshold into the luxurious, domed audience chamber. Heroic reliefs cover every surface, depicting almost divine Nebian figures striking against monstrous creatures, their exact meaning a mystery to me. Luminous crystal pillars, towering from floor to ceiling, dot the entire room.
But all this pales compared to the throne, the centerpiece—perhaps for the entire universe. An immense sphere of solid Elerium, its orange hue undulating and glowing as if alive, curved at one end to seat the Imperator. An ancient long gray-haired and bearded Nebian male, his drowsy, almost closed eyes, looking lost within the enormity of his supreme, decadent seat of power.
The terrified faces of the Nebian nobility mutter frantically at our approach. My sharp senses pick out their pungent fear, clinging to them like their garish, opulent high-collared clothes and their Elerium encrusted jewelry. Cries of “Prefect, save us!” and “Barbarian Klendathians here to kill us all!” ring out.
The fearful give us a wide berth, scrambling to distance themselves. But the immense purple battlesuit standing beside the throne draws my attention. The cockpit lies open, revealing the Praetorian Prefect—my torturer and the source of my rage.
I lean down and whisper, “Listen, you must infuse your soul like before, then lay your hands upon the Imperator, staying close to him no matter what happens.” Tyrxie shifts her rifle among the frightened masses, as if expecting an attack.
“Fine, but if you’re in danger—” Tyrxie begins.
“No, my love. This is too important. Swear to me, you’ll do as I ask,” I interject, the future teetering on a blade’s edge.
Tyrxie glances up at me with determined resolve. “I promise,” she intones with a nod, then adds, “But don’t let your anger get the better of you.”
I smile at her astute, caring nature, letting it wash over me like the pleasant Klendathian sun. “You have my word. But make no mistake, the Prefect must die for peace to flourish.” My gaze shifts back to the sneering Prefect. “Heal the Imperator and enjoy the show... I know I will.”
Except for the groveling, which I loath to do, but even I must bend to the will of the Gods.
The ancient Imperator finally stirs, appearing as if he’s just waking up. “I say. Prefect Domna, is that a Klendathian come to visit?” he drawls, his voice wizened, his tone slow. “How exciting. It’s been centuries since I spoke to one.” He peers down between his white bushy eyebrows, almost as long as his beard.
Suppressing a sigh, I break my embrace with my love and my pride. Prostrating before the ancient Nebian, my head brushing the majestic stone floor, my sword sprawled out before me. I seethe within, the irksome work of a warrior of peace, an insult to my noble pride. “Great and glorious Imperator Bulba, fourth of your name, protector of the twin-sunned empire. I beseech your noble countenance on behalf of my leader. The wise and powerful High Chieftain Krogoth of my proud Klendathian kin.”
Krogoth would burst into a fit of laughter if he could see me now.
“In the name of peace, for the good of our peoples who have long suffered in futile wars, I bring an offer of alliance!” My voice rings out in the eerie silent chamber, finally lifting my gaze to the Imperator, hearing the stunned gasps of the crowd.
“Oh, my, how polite he is, knowing the ancient addresses! Very well. I accept your request to join our feasting dances.” The Imperator waddles atop his opulent throne with excitement as an awkward silence lingers. “Prefect Domna, you told me the Klendathians were savages. How wrong you were.” He titters, while I wait for the true power behind the throne to speak.
“Let me handle this matter, Bulba.” The soulless eyes of the Prefect regard me. Already my blood boils as my claws itch, craving to tear out his throat and rend his flesh to pieces. His battlesuit whirs to life, thudding down the steps towards me. “Was this your ploy all along? To infiltrate our Imperial court and threaten the very heart of the empire itself?”
I would hold my tongue, knowing my words won’t move him—they never could. Yet the audience must hear, “As a warrior of peace, it’s my mission to bridge the divide between our peoples.” I remain prostrate on the ground, making it difficult for him to justify attacking me.
Soon though, very soon, he will feel my wrath!
“Lies! Your Scythian masters bid you come here; they aided you in overriding our defenses somehow. But no longer. We’ve retaken control and in moments my forces will scour your filth from here.” His battlesuit thunders to stand over me, its steps shaking the very floor. “Well? Speak savage!” he demands.
Patience, just a little longer.
Only the hushed breaths of the crowd and the whirling servo gears of the Prefect’s battlesuit punctate the incredible tension. “Speak!” he screams before a massive robotic boot slams into my side, forcing the wind from my lungs as it carries me crashing into a crystal pillar with a jarring thud.
Gasps ring out, none louder than Tyrxie’s, who screams my name with concern. My brave female approaches, but I hold up a halting hand. Spitting green blood, I turn to the Prefect with a knowing smile—his fate now sealed, the futures of victory now aligning. None will interfere now. “Do you remember my words after you sliced off my arm, Prefect? Someone very close to you? That time is now.”
“Not by your hand, crippled savage!” The Prefect yells, closing his cockpit, now encased in his sleek metal tomb. I activate my sword, holding it before me as the Rush pumps through my veins, leaking from my eye with murderous wispy fury. My phantom limb throbs and itches for blood, for justice. It shall have both.
The Prefect’s purple battlesuit shoots toward me, its boosters roaring to life. I divine the paths, countless images flooding my mind, each bleeding into infinity, each offering a multitude of safe options. The battlesuit towers over me, grasping for my throat with a massive shimmering hand. Yet I remain steady, waiting until the last fraction of a second.
In a golden blur of hatred, I dash to my left, executing a perfect cut to the battlesuits’ outstretched hand, slicing it clean off. It clangs to the ground, sparking yellow and red amidst the shocked gasps of the Nebian nobility. The Prefect wheels his machine round, lifting his suit’s arm to inspect the damage. Shame he can’t feel the true pain—the pain that I suffered.
I smirk, knowing I could’ve ended him then and there but yearning for more, my righteous revenge not yet satisfied. Staring at the looming Prefect, I place my sword before my face, an invitation for more. “You cannot win. I have foretold your death.”
From the edge of my enhanced awareness, I sense Tyrxie bridging our connection, moving to place a glowing hand upon the Imperator, as all eyes are focused on my skillful display. “Silence!” The Prefect retorts, his machine hurtling towards me, with what should be dazzling speed, but to our scared bond enhanced-senses, it tests my patience, like waiting for the dawn.
He aims his torn arm straight for my chest, but I know at the last moment he’ll adjust to my left. The futures spoil his ploy in a host of premonitions. Closing my eye, I breathe in deep as his sparking broken arm remnants almost brush my skin. In a flash I leap into the air, twisting to deliver a clean cut severing the rest of his damaged robotic limb.
It shakes the floor with a thud, flickering and twitching, useless and broken—like the flesh he stole from me. More gasps of shock echo out as the Prefect turns with his other arm raised, glowing with ominous crimson intent. “Prefect Horaxus Domna, cease this madness at once!” The familiar yet sterner voice of the Imperator cries out, now carrying renewed strength and clarity.
“Shut up, you old fool. The threat must be neutralized!” The Prefect snaps back. I inhale deeply, knowing what comes next will test my abilities to their limits. But as a demigod, I stand firm. Blessed by the Gods, I know I will not fail them. Through me, their will be done.
“Stop him, he’ll kill everyone!” Imperator Bulba cries out, as the frantic screams of the nobility rushing to the other side of the audience chamber add to the heady blend of beautiful chaos. A barrage of heavy repeater laser cannon streaks out, each beam as thick as my arm. Countless overwhelming images cascade forever, assaulting my senses.
Despite the imminent crimson death, I remain deadly still. Then, sliding into a flowing crouched form, my Rush boils my blood and rumbles through my ears. With impossible speed, I lash out, my sword cutting a path through the lethal laser array. Even to my enhanced senses, I can barely see my blade.
I dance amidst the red blaze, lost to the music of life and death. This is what I was born for. This is my divine purpose. My heart soars, brimming with supreme clarity and surging strength. With each precise slash, executed with perfection I’m ascending to the Gods. Every pivot, every shift, is an homage to my noble ancestors, a testament to my Klendathian blood.
“Why aren’t you dying?” The battlesuit-amplified Prefect’s voice sounds slowed to a crawl as I move with a speed none has ever achieved before. I dash to the left, circling the lumbering machine, which struggles to keep up, its lasers ripping up chunks of stone floor in a dusty red haze.
“Show me the truth of your vaunted robotics against my so-called weak Klendathian flesh!” I roar, my fury and power stoked to their zenith. Lashing out, I cut against the battlesuit’s knee. It stumbles, lopsided, still firing, desperately trying to catch me. “Show me!” I scream, making another perfect cut to its other leg, this time closer to the hip. It rocks to the other side as I peer down at it.
Yet its chassis still pivots, trying to keep up with my superior speed, bathing the room in destruction. Numerous sniper drones spill from its front chest plates, but before they even engage, I slice through them in a whirlwind of fury. “You dare insult my noble blood!” I strike out, leaping over its lazy pivoting gun, slicing off the robotic head. “You dare take from my flesh!”
Finally, I cut through its left arm severing its heavy laser cannon, which crashes to the ground. “What were your orders? Who were your targets?” I spit the words, each syllable once a torment of agony to endure. I slice another sliver off. “What were your orders? Who were your targets?” Another cut “What were your orders? Who were your targets?”
Another, I repeat the words. Another, I repeat the word. Another, I repeat the words.
My golden fury obscures my vision—or perhaps it’s tears—as I watch the crippled battlesuit cockpit open. The Prefect’s sweaty, terrified face emerges, pointing his laser pistol at me. I glide towards him, effortlessly parrying his blast—a mere trifle to one who has ascended to such heights and descended to such depths. My blade punches straight through his black, soulless heart, ending him in an instant—a mercy he denied to me.
Standing amidst the chaos, the once opulent room is now a dusty, broken ruin, devoid of people. But I hardly notice, as I fall to my knees, gulping for breaths through ruptured lungs, my hand trembling. My vision darkens and I feel myself slipping into the void, hearing the faint soft voice of my love calling my name. “Xandor!”
I hope she saw me soaring like a beautiful, majestic, brutonous.