Ibridia

Jora touches down on planet Ibridia and heads for the farmstead. The planet is nothing like Tarnan. It's ugly and coarse in comparison. All brown dirt, a dull blue sky. Ibridians are an industrial people. Gruesome anacondas of smoke from the chimneys of factories and store fronts slither towards the sky. He's never seen one up close but as he threads his way through the busy market place at the center of their lives, Jora determines that the Ibridians are an unattractive people as well.

Like the Tarnanites, they are built for war. Physiologically, they appear to be a hybrid of the human race and an Earth indigenous animal called an elephant. Each adult Ibridian stands over 8 feet tall, their veins as thick as ship ropes bulging beneath their coarse gray skin. They stand on two legs, move with an uncanny elegance. Their faces humanoid besides the trunks of their noses bordered by thick tusks and the veiny ears that fan out like fleshy satellites.

It seems the humans had not yet discovered their tiny planet and so it had become a docking port for refugees, fleeing the blood stained conquest in the stars. No one thought the sight of Jora's little starship pulling into the port any stranger than that of the sun setting, or rain drops falling from the sky. Besides Ibridian civilians and members of the army clunking around in their thick black boots, heavy rifles strapped to their backs, the market place is pregnant with the cheerful life noises of many other races as they barter and make conversation with one another. It's a relief, Jora doesn't speak Ibri.

News of Tarnan's destruction has not yet spread to Ibridia. This too is a relief. It isn't very hard to find a merchant who can direct him to the farmstead in casual, broken Tarnanian. The merchant addresses him with friendly apathy. Making casual conversation as Jora asks for directions and purchases a bow and arrow from her supply of many wares.

Jora doesnt know how he would have responded if the merchant had questioned him about his people. He doesn't want to feel the knife of anger twisting in his heart again. It's better to not be a fable of tragedy just yet.

Jora exits the marketplace and tries not to think on the scene crowded with moving bodies as he follows the merchant's instructions west towards the mountains. Mothers with un-wrung necks clinging tightly to the hands of their smiling children. Men with bodies devoid of explosive wounds laughing and haggling over prices. The stench of blood wildly absent. Everything whole and in it's place. Everything paradisaical as Tarnan would never be again.

It's all too much to dwell on. He clenches his fists as he walks and tries to focus on the task at hand. On slaughtering the child like a sacrificial lamb. The bow feels heavy on Jora's back. His saliva like molasses in his throat. He will do what has to be done. He will do what has to be done.

The farm is fenced in, surrounded by tall trees and high grass. Jora crouches down and slowly creeps his way towards the fencing. He ducks underneath the wooden bars and exhales slowly. Although he's killed thousands of men, his heart is singing a nervous dirge in his chest. He has never killed a child.

There's movement to his left. In one fluid motion he pivots and readies the bow, pulling taut on an arrow, eager to fly. It's the child. Chasing a butterfly. The girl laughs as she runs, her baby trunk bouncing with each step. She leaps to catch the tiny creature in her hand and misses, stumbling as she comes back to the ground, her back to Jora. The sunlight catches on the lightning bolt carved by the fingers of the gods into the back of her neck. Jora's breath catches in his throat.

He lifts the bow and trains the arrow on the mark. He'll kill the child quickly. Painlessly. One strike is all it will take. But his fingers won't release the arrow. Do it, he begs himself. His hands are shaking. Beads of sweat bursting to life on his forehead. There's so much power there in that small body. All the power he needs to avenge Amerra. Cardiminia. Hammond. He has to do what needs to be done. And yet. The murder of the innocents is the gravest sin. It is unforgivable and he who sheds the blood of an innocent shall never ascend into the goodness of the 13 Gods' embrace. All life is precious and to be protected. A Tarnanite must never kill for his own gain, for power, or glory. For riches, prestige or to show himself skillful, strong, or bold. For envy, out of wrath, or passion. A Tarnanite may only extinguish the life of another out of necessity. Only when his very existence is being threatened by the life he wishes to extinguish. Even the lives of the lesser creatures which the 13 Gods have bestowed upon you for nourishment are to be protected. When a Tarnanite hungers let him kill only to survive so that no innocent blood might be shed.

Perhaps sensing the eyes boring into her, the Ibridian girl whirls around. Jora quickly lowers the bow and fastens it back in place as their eyes lock. He expects the girl to be terrified, but her face shatters into a massive grin. She points at Jora and yells at him excitedly in Ibri. A dangerous cocktail of panic and fear are mixing in Jora's stomach. He clamors to his feet as the girl continues to yell and wave at him, motioning for him to come closer. Jora shakes his head and begins to back away.

The door to the building closest to the child flings open and an Ibridian couple that Jora guesses to be the girl's parents come running out. Their clothes are dirty, flecks of hay sticking to the collar of the man's shirt. Their faces are full of alarm as they hurry over to their daughter. The girl speaks to them loudly and excitedly in Ibri, pointing emphatically in Jora's direction. Their eyes follows her finger. Jora can't decipher their expression. Slowly, he lifts his hand and waves.