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Jac’ leath Tarr had moved from the long grass and now watched them from behind a large formation of rocks that sat tucked against the border hills. He recognised them as Plutonians, but they were not like any Plutonians he knew from his village. These were huge creatures with barrel chests and thick necks and didn’t much resemble the shrunken, shrivelled versions he’d left behind. If he concentrated, he could make out their voices and he found that he was interested in what they were saying. He didn’t understand the female. She was a species unknown to him, but he sensed that she was an important figure amongst the soldiers. He didn’t have an intergalactic translator implanted in his ear – no one in the forbidden territories had one - but he’d grown up amongst species with many tongues and he was fluent in six languages. No female looking anything like the one holding court before him – he was later to discover that she was Platton - resided in any of his villages, and he couldn’t understand what she was or what she said, but he soon understood her intentions.
She was richly dressed in flowing pink silks and she stood out against the drab grey background of the soldiers’ uniforms. Through the lens of his eyeglass, it seemed as if she was standing right in front of him and he could make out every pore on her unattractive face and could see the calculating evil in her eyes. She held the attention of every one of the Plutonians and, one in particular, held her attention. Jac’ could tell that he was young and the insignia on the breast of his jacket suggested that he was of a senior rank. He caught most of what the soldier was saying to the female and the words turned his stomach sour.
He turned sharply away and, when he looked back to look once more, a prisoner had been dragged forward. Jac’ guessed that he was the one the soldier had described torturing. The Plutonian was a sorry sight and looked close to death as he was unceremoniously hauled in front of the female.
A circle was formed, and words were spoken, and the young soldier approached the prisoner and began to scream at him. He asked him, over and over, for a name and punctuated his words with hard kicks and violent punches. It was obvious to Jac’ that the prisoner was too far gone to give the reply that was so desperately and violently sought and, when no more than a few minutes had passed, the soldier resorted to begging for the name.
The female spoke to the huge Plutonian at her side and showed him a certain amount of deference. Jac’ suspected that he was the Lord and commander and, perhaps, husband to the female.
What happened next caused Jac’ to rear back in horror.
He’d witnessed the female remove the Plutonian soldier’s eyes with a skill that left everyone in the circle shocked and, when she took off the soldier’s head with one arc of her blade, Jac’ had gasped and had to stuff his fist in his mouth, lest they hear him.
He wasn’t sure what he had stumbled upon but, what he was sure of was that he couldn’t bring his people across the
border until he knew it was safe for them.
He took a moment and counted ten columns of soldiers and estimated that there were at least four thousand armed and ready warriors attached to the female and her Plutonian cohort. Dozens of space shuttles sat idle nearby and it seemed to Jac’ that they had not long arrived at the border and were probably up to no good. Four thousand Plutonian soldiers certainly weren’t bringing good tidings to the people of Icarrion and the scene he had just witnessed seemed to bear testament to that thought.
Suddenly the rocks he had used as protection seemed like an ideal place to become trapped and he needed to put some distance between them and himself. He realised that he could be easily seen - should one of the soldiers glance in his direction - and that was likely, now that the business of murder and the spectacle below him was over.
The air had become decidedly chilly and a bitter wind grabbed at his clothes and his hair. It bit through his cloak and he shivered – as much from the shock of what he had just witnessed as the frigid air. The sky had turned a thunderous black and rain seemed imminent and finding shelter and food was uppermost in his mind. He would worry about the meaning of what seemed like a Plutonian invasion once his belly was full and his bones were warmed.
He could still hear their voices drifting up to him and he risked a final glance before turning and making for the cover and safety of the grass. He kept low to the ground, digging in with his elbows and crawling on his belly, and had gone a fair distance when he heard the sound of marching feet. They were on the move – the Plutonian soldiers – and, thankfully, they were marching off in the opposite direction to him.
He didn’t know where he was going or what villages and townships he would stumble across along the way. He knew that he would need to earn coin to buy food and he knew that he would need to find a roof for his head, but he had no clue as to how he was going to do either.
His best chance was to find a family of humans. He wasn’t sure if any had settled outside of the wastelands that had become known as the forbidden territories. The pioneers of a long ago past had established their communities in the far northern regions of the planet where there was promise of fertile soil and pure waters. The lands hadn’t been wastelands – not then – not until war came and cast its devastation on everything green and whole.
But, perhaps humans had rested up in some villages along the way to the border and decided to lay down roots amongst the natives rather than continue trekking towards the unknown? Perhaps generations of humans had tilled the earth alongside their Icarrion neighbours and, perhaps, he would come across them and they would offer him their hospitality?
Unfortunately, the first species he came across were Xanetteian and they weren’t hospitable.
Sytor spied the human long before the human spied him and, if he’d had more flesh on his bones, he would’ve made a meal of him. He knew that he had to try to wean himself off the flesh of the living, but it wasn’t an easy promise he had made to himself, and he tended to observe every creature he came across with a meal in mind. Platton blood could only serve his appetite so far, and he was fast becoming sick of the smell and the taste of it.
Jac’ was uncomfortably aware of eyes on him. As he clambered down onto the road from the foot of the last hill, he saw a group of the strangest of creatures camped beneath a wizened tree. He had never seen anything like them. They were squat, and round and their skin seemed to secrete an noxious substance that stained their clothes and caused them to scratch incessantly. To Jac’, they were wholly repugnant.
He attempted to circumnavigate their camp, hoping they had no interest in him, and – with his eyes cast to the ground and his arms hanging loose at his sides – he succeeded in reaching a small copse before he was grabbed and hauled backwards.
He kicked out and winded one of his captors and received a blow to the back of his head for his efforts. He tried biting one of their faces, but the stench made him gag and he threw his head back in disgust.
He was forced to his knees at the feet of the leader and his head was yanked back by his hair, so he could look up at the fat slug who grinned down at him.
The language was gibberish and, although they could understand him, he couldn’t understand them. One of them reached out a hand and pulled at his ear then, on seeing no evidence of a gemstone – no translator – the beast shook his bald head and spat on the ground.
Sytor was always on the look-out for anyone or anything that could bring him some advantage. Apart from providing him with a stringy meal, he couldn’t see any advantage of keeping the human with them. He thought about having one of his guards kill him, but he was too preoccupied to be bothered with the mess and allowed him to leave without any further molestation.
What was keeping his mind so preoccupied was his plans to rendezvous with the mercenaries he’d bought with help from Palovier. He was impatient to hear if an alliance had been struck between Palovier and Vensawaa. The mercenaries, alone, wouldn’t be enough to take the capitol and seize the throne and he desperately needed the soldiers that Vensawaa could provide.
When he’d left Xanetteia, his Lord had promised to speak with his southern counterpart but had made no promises regarding an alliance. Theirs was an uneasy relationship. Neither impinged on the other’s territory or trading arrangements, but neither did they socialise or take any interest in each other’s wellbeing. An alliance was a mighty thing to aspire to, but – knowing of the great spoils to be had – Sytor was hopeful.
He’d arrived on Icarrion a short time before. He had no clue that Damanacree had also landed close to the border of the forbidden territories. He would’ve been surprised to find that the Plutonian’s Platton mate had surmised the same as he - that a border landing wouldn’t raise any attention – and he would have been further surprised to learn that it was only by pure chance that they’d chosen different landing points.
Sytor didn’t plan on staying on Icarrion beyond picking up his mercenaries. He could have stayed on Xanetteia and sent one of his lieutenants to transact the business of buying two thousand brigands, but he believed that it was important – from the get-go – for his newly acquired troops to see who would be commanding them. He didn’t plan on being a general who led from the rear. He planned to be visible to his enemies and to inspire a ferocious bravery in his followers, and he wanted every single Icarrion to realise that he was a warrior king and worthy of their loyalty.
But - although he was no coward, and although he was anxious to begin his battle for the Icarrion throne – he was, above all other things, shrewd and calculating. He had come to realise that he had to play the long game. There was no point in getting in the middle of a war between Damanacree and the dragon princess. He saw no advantage in that.