The Hand of My Enemy (3 page)

Aircraft darkened the sky.  People ran in panic
as sirens screeched, warning them to take cover.  Those too sick to run and
others, who'd simply given up, feeling death preferable to the horror that had
become their lives, stood their ground, waiting to die.

From his window, Ozrik looked out upon what had
once been the capital of his beloved kingdom and wept.

They flew in low, the whine of their engines
striking fear in the hearts of those on the ground.  The end had finally come! 
They could see things falling from the sky and braced for incoming bombs; but
instead of detonating warheads, parachutes opened, vibrant colors against a
leaden sky.  The cargo they carried drifted down to the ground, landing with
thuds, not ear-shattering explosions.

Ozrik watched, stunned, as supplies landed on the
streets and rooftops around him.  There were also reports of planes strafing
the burning reactors, dumping mixtures of boron, lead pellets, and clay on
them.

Their saviors had finally arrived, but there was
no rejoicing.  The markings on the aircraft were unmistakable: they were
Hurdian.  The invasion they feared had commenced.  All was lost!

Ozrik walked slowly past the enemy column, his
heart pounding as he went to meet his hated adversary.  His ceremonial sword
bounced against his thigh, hand clutching his nation's unconditional
surrender.  He climbed the stairs of the aircraft, pausing at the door, then
with heavy heart stepped over the threshold, and for the first time faced Crax.
Though they'd clashed many times in war, they'd never come face-to-face
before.  They eyed one another, but did not speak.

For a moment nothing happened.  Then, wanting to
end the agony quickly, Ozrik thrust the paper into Crax's hand.

The barbarian took it and read; then suddenly
dismissed his aides.  Ozrik was bewildered.  Certainly Crax would want the act
witnessed so historians could chronicle the Galtian defeat?

Ozrik breathed in deeply, unsheathing his sword. 
After a brief hesitation, he handed the weapon to Crax and extended his right
hand.  He did not shut his eyes.  That would have been the coward's way!  He
would be as brave now as he had been in battle.  He stared at the wall, waiting
for the blow that would sever his hand.  It was Crax's right as the victor to
claim the hand of his enemy.  This was to be the final humiliation before the
yoke of servitude was placed upon his people.  He waited for the pain; but
there was only the sound of his own strained breathing.

Ozrik turned to face his enemy.

The Hurd’s face was grossly disfigured.  A deep
jagged scar extended from his chin to his patched right eye.  The skin of his neck
and lower jaw was puckered and discolored by burns and pockmarked by old
shrapnel wounds.  Crax smugly stuck out his chin, straightened his shoulders,
and held his head high when he saw Ozrik studying his old wounds.  He wore his
battle scars like medals.  “Souvenirs from our previous encounters,” he said
coldly.  He hefted the sword, testing its weight.  Then stared his enemy in the
eye.  "Another time," Crax said, allowing the paper and sword to fall
to the floor.  "We'll meet again someday, you and I, as noble warriors in
combat.  Waging war with honor on some future battlefield!”  With that he
turned and walked into the forward cabin, shutting the door behind him.

Ozrik stood stunned in his wake.  He didn't
understand.  Why had he and his nation been spared?  Ozrik bowed his head and
called down a blessing on his enemy, asking God to smile on Crax and his
people.  He picked up the surrender and his sword.  Clasping them tightly to
his chest, he walked from the aircraft.

Crax settled into his seat.  He shut his eyes,
readying for the flight back to his capital city.  He smiled.  All was well. 
He’d done the right thing.  By showing mercy to his avowed enemy, he’d insured
the future of his nation and its people.  There was nothing to fear now.  Galt
would rise again and Hurd would continue to prosper.  For in the days and years
to come there would be
war!
 
Blessed, glorious,
brutal, bloody, and never-ending!

Mary Vigliante
Szydlowski has published six adult novels and three children’s books under
various pseudonyms.  Her articles, essays, short stories, poetry, and
children’s stories have appeared in magazines, newspapers, and on the web.  She
lives in Albany, New York.

Visit her
website at:
http://www.maryviglianteszydlowski.com