Chapter 15

November 2nd, 2020 pt2

Zecharia awoke to an aching and throbbing body, and being roughly slapped and soaked in water. Spluttering, he tried to sit push himself up with his hands, only to find them bound with rope. He smelled fire, and roasting meat. Groaning and looking around in terror, he saw a fire spit that a Draconian was tending, and that there were a small number of the caravan workers and guards left alive. Of the thirty six, including Zaki, only nine remained, including Zaki, who wheezed and coughed frequently, looking ashen. He would have been more concerned, had he not been the focus of three of the remaining seven Draconians.

"You kill Yimposh. How?" Asked an archer who crouched before him, while a lancer and a brute stood behind him, arms crossed.

"I...I don't know. He wasn't very good with his sword." Zechariah said, trying to be helpful but truthfully, he didn't know.

The lancer said something to the brute and all three laughed in low grating hisses. "This we know. Yimposh doesn't use swords. He uses fire. How did you kill him? Why are you not crispy dinner?" Zechariah's eyes widened further in horror as, looking back to the fire spit, he realized that the roasting meat upon the spit, was of human parts. Being dizzy already, Zechariah leaned over and vomited to the laughter of the Draconians. Once the laughter died he was slapped again by a large, tough claw. "Tell us why you live?"

Getting slightly dazed by the strike he raised his hands to try and shield himself from further slaps as he answered, "I don't know! His fire didn't work."

"Fire not work? How? Why?" The archer asked in his clipped accent.

"I don't know. It turned to blue dust." Zechariah said. He wasn't sure if he should be telling them anything but...frankly speaking, he was already defeated. Considering the fact that they had fought intentionally with blunt weapons, despite still killing the majority of the caravan, that meant they also were not likely to kill any more and Zechariah did not enjoy the prospect of torture. It was probably best to do what they say.

The Draconians seemed to argue amongst themselves for some time, just as confused by the events as Zechariah was. Eventually, they just shrugged, and the archer turned back to him. Then, from a pack, the archer drew out a small box. A box that was very familiar to Zechariah. Zechariah's expression changed from one of general fear for safety and desperation, to one of shock. "Ah, it is yours." Opening it, it was empty. Completely empty. His inheritance was gone. But...he looked off into the darkness and immediately regretted it, as the archer's eyes snapped in the same direction. He had dropped his chisel when Nawfa had disarmed him. Perhaps he could come back later, if her survived, to reclaim it. Or...perhaps it was better lost in the Barrens. "Why you look there?" The archer asked and Zechariah sputtered an answer attempting to feign ignorance. The archer spoke in their language and the brute left, grabbing a log from the fire to use as a torch, he went off into the darkness. Zechariah watched him anxiously but the archer turned his face back to him.

"These tools. They are in the night?" The archer asked. Zechariah shrugged saying he didn't know. Then, the draconian lifted a sharp clawed finger, and began to press it into Zechariah's leg, and Zechariah quickly gave in admitting that the chisel and hammer were out by the stones. The draconian called to his peer, who strode off further into the night.

The night. It was full of shadows, thick and black as ink. They swirled before his eyes, the shadows from the fire dancing before him, mocking him in their strange flickering. His eyes darted to and fro, searching the shadows for any sign that something might be out of the ordinary, but he could see nothing. Even now, bound and held captive by a Draconian scouting party, he found himself more terrified of the night, then of his captors. That said however, it was the Draconians who held his life in the immediate now and so, swallowing his fear, he lay on the edge of the firelight, back towards the endless shadows that tickled his spine.

Eventually, the brute who had gone wandering called out, and Zechariah feared the worst. But then, a moment later, he was hauled to his feet. "Show." The archer demanded, and pushed Zechariah forward...forward into that inky darkness. He wanted to bolt. To dash, to hide. But he didn't dare as he heard a knife being drawn from it's sheath. The archer marched him, step by step, into the darkness towards the stones. Reaching their destination, Zechariah directed them to the stone where he had sat, carving his hand, but they found no tools. "No lies." Hissed the archer, and the brute stepped forward growling.

"No! I swear! They were right here. See? This is the blood from the wounds on my left hand." He exclaimed, showing them the bloody sand and his hand in turn, hoping that they believed him. "I dropped them right here. I swear. If they're not here, then someone else must have them."

They spoke to each other in their low, strange tongue, and must have believed Zechariah, for they began to march him back to the camp.

November 3rd, 2020

Dragging him back to camp, they spoke among themselves for a time, before sitting down around the fire, leaving him and the captives bound and alone. They could have probably worked to untie themselves but, those who had fought were wounded, and those who didn't fight were not bold enough to try and sneak away during the night. So, they all lay there together. Some of trembled and cried in fear, or loss of friends and family. Others just stared blankly forward, whether their head was damaged physically or not, Zechariah didn't know. He wanted to cry with the others, or retreat to some peaceful far off shore in his mind but, he wasn't sure he had any tears left, and he didn't want to spend any more time inside his mind than he had to.

Awkwardly crawling forward, he drew the idle attention of a Draconian for a moment, before he was presently ignored again. He made his way to Zaki's side who lay still, breathing in rapid shallow breaths, his head resting in the lap of one of his guards who was just staring straight ahead, unseeing. He looked like he was in bad condition. He had blood on his lips. He must have coughed up some blood at one point which meant his lungs were punctured. Zechariah's expression changed from one of concern to one of fear and dread and Zaki noticed.

“Pretty shit...huh?” Zaki croaked.

“What is?” Zechariah returned.

“My chest. I'm dead.” Zaki said through painful gasps.

Zechariah didn't like the man but...seeing him like this? Coughing, choking on blood, pale, visibly caved in chest. It was amazing he was still alive at all. Likely due to his chronic stubbornness. Seeing Zaki like that, watching the Draconians begin to dig into the human flesh for their supper, smelling the feces, urine and blood of those who had died...it drove something away in Zechariah's mind. Something he wasn't quite aware of.

“Yeah. You're not going to be alive for long.” The flatness of his words shocked him as Zechariah spoke them.

“Thanks for that.” Zaki coughed. Zechariah was about to try and speak but Zaki continued. “Seriously. Everyone else here is a bitch. 'Oh, you'll be fine, it's just a small break.' Fucking cowards.”

Zechariah looked around and a few of the other prisoners looked away ashamed, but didn't speak. “I guess they're just trying to give you hope.” Zechariah said to which Zaki scoffed bitterly, “I never liked you enough to give you hope.”

Zaki laughed at this causing him to cough again, this time coughing up blood. “You always were a prick Zech.” He said groaning. “If you're set on killing me faster, just punch me in the chest would you?”

“That would be to quick.” Zechariah said, trying to joke and lighten the mood with grim humor, but something had changed in Zaki's eyes.

“I'm serious Zech. I'm dying. The Draconians won't carry a dead man.” Zaki said, with a cold stare. It was strange, Zechariah had killed dying beasts before. In each case however, there was always this panic in their eyes, this overwhelming fear as, even though there was no hope for them, they would fight you with every last fiber of their being to live. Here though, Zaki lay, a dying beast, looking straight into Zechariah's eyes without a hint of fear or cowardice. For all that Zechariah had not liked the man, here was his strength. An unwavering confidence in self. It was admirable.

“Are you sure?” Zechariah asked, hesitantly though he immediately regretted it.

“Don't be pathetic Zech. When have I ever not been?” Zaki asked though he more stated it as a matter of pride.

“Okay.” Zechariah said, as he climbed up onto his knees over Zaki. The others were watching him, both horrified, and accepting of the situation.

“If you survive this Zechariah, and ever make your way back to Umar...as unlikely as that is...” He was interrupted by a fit of coughing again. “Let my wife know what happened. She'll be fine...I made sure to take good care of her but...it'd do her good to know how I died.”

“I swear, if I survive this, I will carry your love to your wife.” Zechariah swore.

“Don't fuck her you prick. Just tell her how I died.” Zaki said trying and failing not to laugh again, as he coughed up more blood.

“Okay. I'll do that. And I'd be crazy to stick my dick in anyone brave enough to marry you.” Zechariah countered, causing Zaki to laugh in agony once more.

“Fuck you. Just get on with it eh?” Zaki croaked. Zechariah knelt over him, figuring his elbow would be the best way to do the job. As he was about to act, Zaki's gaze turned hateful, and Zechariah heard the footfalls of a Draconian approaching. It was the brute. He walked from the fire, looked at Zechariah, then at Zaki and back. Holding their gaze for a long moment, the Draconian unfurled his wings and beat them three times at the same time pounding his chest with a fist. Then, he nodded to Zechariah.

Zechariah had no idea what the Draconian was doing, but seeing no move to stop him, Zechariah looked down at Zaki, nodded his farewell, and then slammed his elbow with his full body weight behind it, down onto Zaki's broke ribs. Zaki tried to scream in pain, but instead, simply gurgled in his blood as his lungs began to fill more rapidly. Seeing his agony, Zechariah repeated the process, slamming his elbow a second time into Zaki's broken chest, and then once more. Zaki's body convulsed, twitching spasmodically as his brain began to shut down, and his heart stop. After a few moments, Zaki lay still, face frozen in an expression of agony, blood drooling out of his mouth.

“Mtu Asiyeogopa!” The Draconian brute suddenly bellowed and the others around the fire stood, unfurled their wings, beat their chests and cried “Mtu Asiyeogopa!” As the brute began to turn away, he noticed the look of confusion on Zechariah's face. “Fearless one. To gaze the abyss without fear. He was Mtu Asiyeogopa.” The brute explained as he walked back to the fire pit and continued to eat one of Zechariah's companions.

Zechariah sat back, next to Zaki's corpse, as the caravan guard simply continued to stare into space. The words of the Draconian swirled through his head. He had constantly of their brutality, their ferocity on the field of battle, that they cannibalized their fallen. Never had he heard about them, as a species, as a culture. Even their enemy, who they would brutally murder and eat, they honored in death in their own way. The bewilderment swam around Zechariah's mind as he stared into the campfire's light and slowly drifted off to sleep.