It is easiest to think of the captors as having a vaguely French accent, the thicker ones with a bit of Swahili. This is just a guide and has nothing to do with those 'for real'. Slightly off words are intentional.
õì = together like this is pronounced 'WAH'
ç = 's' sound as in 'police', as apposed to a presumed 'k' sound
ieu = IH-EHYOO (like the three letters smooshed together)
eant = EE-AHN, heavy on a twangy 'AH', with the hint of 't', where the tongue is cupped below, almost 'nuh'
aun(i) baego - son of killers (sons of killers); perhaps means something like 'badass(es)'
Chapter 12:
All the Bloody Rejoins
I have failed. Her. My people. Everyone.
Trying to stay calm through measured breaths despite being completely restrained by the lifelike fibers, Deros opened his eyes to see Palamera running his way, somehow dodging around the nearest guard, who was cursing unintelligibly and dismounting. Meanwhile, the one that had shot Deros just watched it all and laughed, holstering his weapon once more. Deros’s spear had been simply leaning up against him, and he grabbed it again with a pause, as if unsure what to do with it.
“Wouldn’t touch him, girl,” the giant called as he maneuvered the spear into a horizontal position. “Stays sticky up to a minute. Less in this dry-ass ponthole, but still.” With that, he brought the spear down over his knee, breaking it cleanly in half with a sharp crack. He tossed the blunt end down and kept hold of the spear end. Deros could hardly care — it was the least of his worries, and perhaps all too appropriate.
Palamera dropped beside Deros, touching a hand to his cheek and forming makar’osa simultaneously to check his health, the telltale flows arcing through him. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Deros…”
“I’m sorry, Palamera,” Deros said, staring up at her. “For everything.”
She shook her head and opened her mouth to reply, but the dismounted figure grabbed her by an arm and jerked her away and up, eliciting a yelp and a burst of resistance from the Hospitaller, but the grip was like unyielding iron.
“Oda! Enough to that, girl!” The maybe-feminine demon growled in that thickest of all accents. “Told you to stay out! Nokieu!”
Deros glared up at her, feeling an untempered rage boiling up in him. “Hurt her and I promise you: I will kill you. If it’s the last thing I do.”
They all laughed in their tinny way, like it was a fabulous joke. Palamera had ceased struggling and was looking worriedly from them to Deros. She certainly didn’t approve of the bravado. Deros wasn’t sure he did either. It had just burst out of him.
The presumable leader-type did not seem concerned or offended, though. He made some vague gesture to the side without looking, to which his mount eagerly came back to him, tail flicking back and forth behind it. Gazing down at Deros, he said, “Still think you’re a right hard nokieuri, et, boy? Parta. Just watch how far you push. When we push back, soft primitives like you can pop.”
The figure turned to climb back onto his massive mount, into the strange contoured saddleback formed right out of its plated hide, of apparently softer material. There weren’t stirrups so much as grooves or indentations within it. “Behave yourself,” he continued casually, “and you will not be harmed. Understood?”
I achieve nothing by antagonizing them, and much by appearing obedient. It sickened him to even think it as an Azakan, especially as ‘appearing’ and ‘being’ seemed semantical. But ultimately the advantages were all theirs, and he needed… information.
The mounted demon approached closer and leaned down, looming over once more, while pointing Deros’s own spear down at him. “Understood?” His tone was demanding and threatening.
Deros swallowed down pride and spite as he gazed up into the monster’s gleaming, iridescent eyes. He tried also to fight down his panic and even sheer nausea at the very idea of being a captive. “Yes,” he managed.
“Good.” The creature straightened and lifted the half-spear up, finally shoving it under the straps of his extensive saddlebags. “I’m glad to see you’re taking to your curriculum.”
“What proof is there that you mean what you say? The unknowns of why you’ve taken us hover over us balefully.”
The figure did not answer immediately, looking away at the others, as if bored with the matter. But finally he said, “Because we’re soldiers, boy. Professionals, with standards of operation, protocols, and rules — which we follow. Mostly. All we really care about is our bonuses at the end of this. Big, juicy, fat ones. Breaking and taking you primitives is just the execution of an order. Simple as that.”
Palamera had been pulled off toward the other monstrous mount, where she was fitted with some sort of clasp and dark cording behind her back, to bind her. More bindings were fitted to her waist, with minimal give so as to be unremovable, then anchored like a line to the beastly steed. The sight scattered thoughts of further pressing questions from Deros’s mind.
A lead. Like she was aloga. Founder damn them! I will kill them all. Hardly in line with his so recent logic, and seemingly hopeless before the reality of being so pathetic as to be wrapped up like meat caught within flatbread. As well wish to walk on the moon as kill even one of them. At best he could hope merely to escape them.
“So long as she isn’t harmed,” Deros spat out instead of what roiled in his head, “I will cooperate.”
The statement seemed to be incuriously ignored as the figure above him called, “Paetas!”
The one that had been binding Palamera looked over, pausing just as she was preparing to mount up herself. “Et, Vaetor?”
“Go retrieve salvage from the corpse. The animal looks to have expired without our assistance. Saves a bullet, anyway.” He turned to the other soldier. “Semõìn, dissolve enough of this primitive’s melnûteur that he can walk and get him secured. Consider yourself his keeper.”
The one called Semõìn was already dismounted and retrieving Deros’s fur cloak, shaking it free of sand. He began rolling it up as he replied, “Zeko, chief. Do I get an extra bonus for that? Malleiu eta le plása?” The words had a vaguely amused air.
The ‘chief’ only grunted, in a manner that gave little confidence.
“Vaetor?” Deros queried. “This means commander?”
The one so titled ignored him, turning his great beast around by unseen pressures to trundle away. The rider then lifted both his hands up to adjust the strange antennae that extended from protrusions on the side of his head, twisting them so they angled further upward to the sky.
Semõìn stowed the wrapped-up cloak into a large saddlebag and walked over to Deros, who still lay prone and motionless. Looking down, he said in his strange accent, “Vaetor Kerrick is the way you should address him, kampriço. He is the squad leader. Ten carabiniers! Auxiliaries, all — and Redstuds. Which means hard pólo auni baego, you hear? Blooded elites. Nok your pont up from one trash village to the next, Prettyboy Tribal.”
He laughed and repeated, ‘Prettyboy Tribal’ to himself indulgently as he fetched some strange implement from his saddlebags and knelt down beside Deros. The item reminded Deros vaguely of a bladder for water but seemed stiffer, and as the top was unscrewed, a nozzle-like end was revealed — reminiscent of some metal applicators for the bottled medicines of Hospitallers he’d seen. But he didn’t recognize the material.
The soldier then carefully pressed the end onto the fibrous bonds wrapping Deros from his thighs to nearly his neck. A clear ooze came out of the nozzle, smelling strange and foul, but the fiber smoked and wilted away where it touched, ooze all but disappearing in the process.
“I suggest you stay still,” Semõìn warned as he worked meticulously. “This parta burns and itches like the nokieu on your skin. You don’t want it in your clothes.”
“Noted,” Deros muttered. From the looks and smell of the stuff, he didn’t doubt it. Unable to look away for his worries — especially because the area being dissolved was at his hips — Deros also resisted distracting his keeper from the work as well, with the many questions in his mind. As the line of dissolving mass crossed to the other side of his torso, he breathed something of a sigh of relief.
Having the time to do so, Deros studied the great form of the creature working its rather subtle art across him. Despite that he’d seen the evidence of everything being alive, he couldn’t shake the feeling of the head being too inexpressive, too stiff and dead. The eyes didn’t move, nor did anything else aside from perhaps twitches of the antennae. It was all on the inside. Like an all-enclosing helmet. A… living helmet? It seemed ludicrous.
Not wanting to pass up the opportunity for information, Deros asked, “Where are you from? What are you called — what are you? As a… species.”
The great massive head shook side-to-side as Semõìn laughed. “Stupid Prettyboy Tribal. Think we’re monsters, do you? Well, nokieu, maybe we are…”
The soldier set aside the dissolver, then in one motion reached under Deros and flipped him over with ease. Deros barely managed to keep his face from being buried in the sand as he turned his head, wincing and stifling a curse. With effort, he adjusted so his head was on the right side to keep an eye on Semõìn to some degree, who’d already picked up the dissolver to continue his work.
“You’ll find it all out in due time, kampriço,” Semõìn said in highly-amused tones, “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you this, though: we’re Ironbloods. The Warborn. A warrior caste — that’s something you tribals understand, et? Only we’re made for it. Kelabrique. In a way that’d make your primitive little brain blow out.” He paused in his efforts a moment to make an ‘explode’ gesture with his hand as well as a sound effect to go with it, laughing before returning to the task.
“No doubt,” Deros said neutrally, despite his annoyance with the ‘Ironblood’ and his endless mockery. ‘Made’ for war? Manufactured? The implication was as disturbing as their appearance. The sort of power capable of such things was that much more frightening as a foe.
We have no chance against them. The idea of them coming and waging war on Miracle Springs filled him with dread. What did Many Sands look like? Surely they’d raided it at the very least. Suddenly he remembered Bariaki’s dream. The entire world broken. Is that what they sought to do? Was the old man prophetic? It seemed absurd. Deros certainly didn’t believe in such things. But the man’s fears had surely been realized on some level. And things he would laugh at if he heard the tale, he’d seen with his own eyes. Nightmares come to life.
I’m sorry, Mister Bariaki. I didn’t believe, and no one else did. No one listened. We should’ve left from the stench and the bird and the omens. The dream. Instinct. Arrogance put us here. It had very suddenly all seemed much more reasonable to have believed. Heeded.
“Made by whom?” Deros found himself asking out loud.
“The Shapers,” came Semõìn’s ominous, perhaps reverent reply. “Your new Ordení. Masters.”
Suddenly Semõìn reached down and grabbed hold of the fibrous mass at Deros’s back to jerk him upward, standing up himself and carrying his captive with him, before finally setting him unsteadily on his feet. Deros’s head spun terribly, where without the grip at his back he’d probably have stumbled back down onto his face.
The horn-crowned, six-eyed head came close, looming over him, leaning down to resonantly whisper, “Scared of us, hotpont? Just imagine who we’re scared of. Best advice you’ll ever hear: don’t cross them. You’re better off dead.”
With that, he grabbed the mass of material more or less hanging loosely at Deros’s waist and ripped it free, leaving only his top torso and arms restrained, and his hands wriggling blessedly free at the top of his thighs. Semõìn released him with a little push, and Deros just barely managed to stay on his feet, stumbling away in the sand.
“Not making a run for it, Prettyboy Tribal?” The carapaced soldier laughed as he bent down to retrieve the dissolving implement and re-cap it. His tone was gleefully taunting. “Maybe ti running headbutt? Bite an ankle?”
Deros didn’t dignify it with an answer, just glared and stood there, subtly testing his maneuverability. The material had give to it, at least, despite the quite uncomfortable pressure and restraint. It was probably impossible to wriggle out of his bonds — at the least, it would take long, arduous effort. He would bide his time. Observe and wait for his moment of escape. Preferably when their guard was worn down.
Looking over toward Palamera, he found her doing the same: watching him worriedly. Her keeper had finished with Graceful’s corpse and was mounted up near the vaetor, who was manipulating his plated mouthpiece… he slid it down to where its top was at his chin and the rest hanging below. A strange, curling, horn-like instrument was brought up and inserted into the opening, its end forming a flared cup that fit within precisely. Fingers worked much like a musical instrument on valves, and once more Deros felt the pressure on his ears and the vague hints of low tones reverberating in the air.
“Maybe you’re not so stupid after all,” Semõìn offered as he approached and wrapped the strange dark cording around Deros’s waist. “In which case, we might get along decently. Don’t make my life difficult, and I’ll let you keep yours. A pretty fair trade, et, kampriço?”
“Truly a pittance on my part,” Deros said vaguely, as he alternated attention between the oddity of the vaetor’s horn calls and watching Semõìn anchor him to a very sturdy-looking, thick hoop formed out of the carapace of his beast. Two of them were at the creature’s back, amidst the saddlebags, while two more could be seen above its shoulders. The cording fused together by some mysterious means and manipulation of hands, rather than using knots.
“That’s the spirit,” his captor said as he put foot to faux-stirrup and raised himself atop his mount, which had turned its head around quite flexibly to look — perhaps at Deros. Its tail nearby flicked around, and once almost slapped Deros in the face, causing him to recoil.
Semõìn turned to look and chuckled, then leaned forward to pat the creature’s plated neck. “Ous evrie, Neki, ous evrie! Watch the tail, girl. Be still. Meltesón.”
The beast — shockingly — made very animal-like, deep whines of a throaty timbre, as it craned to try and look at Semõìn, seemingly anxious to meet his hand with its strange mouthless snout, but found itself unable to. Its tail twitched and flicked somewhat, but ceased the wide and dangerous arcs from before.
Are these truly like aloga? How in blazes do they eat? Every moment spent among the weird beings seemed to confuse him more.
Just as he was thinking how to phrase his next question, four riders came up over the sandy rise to the northwest, one of them dragging someone along by a cord at their feet.
“Eursett!” Palamera cried out, and tried to dash in that direction, to no avail — her face was despairing as she was caught short by the cord at her waist. “What are you doing!? You’ll kill…” She trailed off as she watched, shocked and horrified. Indeed, the clothes tossing around without resistance could be none other than the Hospitaller. The sight bid the worst.
As the small party rode up, Vaetor Kerrick wheeled around and hastily removed the horn from his mouth. “What in the nok le parta, Raetmus? You nokieun pontsekú! Why?!” He gestured in agitation to the dragged form, which stopped as ‘Raetmus’ did. Stopped as still as death.
Raetmus seemed somehow larger even than the others, with eyes curved in a more menacing fashion and the tips of the horns painted red. The great giant just shrugged. “Because she’s dead,” he boomed in an accent similar to Semõìn’s. “Aim is impossible in this pont gravity. Overcompensated. Got her right in the temple.”
“Penetrated before expanding, Vaetor,” said another in distinctively feminine tones, to Deros’s ears. “Some of it even rooted into her brain matter. Perhaps the cadaver is an interesting subject? But we don’t have means of proper preservation…”
“Lucky to even get her,” yet another said. “Wily ass kessa almost got away. Quite an impressive rid-”
“Just shut the nok up, all of you bumbling idiots!” The vaetor additionally let loose a couple of unintelligible strings of words that were likely curses, as he approached and stared down at the corpse, blatantly vexed and looking at it somehow like dung sitting on his personal grounds.
Palamera had dropped down to her knees, staring across the distance at her fallen superior in silent anguish, stunned. Deros looked tentatively over at the splayed tumble of dirty robes. When he saw Eursett’s face, he had to avert his eyes. Blood caked all across one side of her head, the face partly mangled, and any sign of the strange fibers absent. Perhaps dissolved and removed. Her eyes stared lifelessly. He wished he hadn’t looked at all, as the sight was one that was almost certainly burned into his memory forever.
“You four sopheads,” the vaetor continued in weary tones, “will take the corpse and toss it down a cave. And keep your mouth shut about it. I’m still going to pass it up the pipes since every upright kessa out here knows there were ten to account for, but we’re not going to parade the pontin deader around.”
Palamera shot up onto her feet. “You can’t! Sh- the body must be burned. Along with her cothvmesi — her token. A-a medallion on her necklace.”
“Palamera, please,” Deros pleaded. When their eyes met, he shook his head. She did, too, in confusion or denial. She hadn’t accepted the situation; was still in shock. She somehow didn’t absorb that they clearly would not care.
Silence was their only answer initially, as if she were an irrelevant animal that had bleated. The three smaller newcomers shifted around a bit, likely ready to head off and carry out their orders, but they seemed to follow the big one’s lead, who was not departing, nor anxious at all.
Raetmus instead reached into a pouch and pulled out Eursett’s necklace, covered in gems and a few charms of various materials, as well as the telltale larger painted wooden disk of her cothvmesi. It looked like a doll’s ornament in the monster’s hands. He flicked the token with a great finger. “This, little girl? This is mine, now. A trophy. I always keep a trophy to kills, accidental or no.”
Semõìn and a couple of others chuckled at this. The feminine one with the greater vocabulary muttered, ‘psychopath’ low enough that Deros almost didn’t hear. It wasn’t a word he immediately understood, though he recognized the form of it from the dictionary.
Once more was a vision he wished he hadn’t seen: on the token, he spied a child’s crude painting, of herself and a cute rendition of an aloga, with the telltale stable in the background. Eursett had wanted to raise aloga. Just as her family always had.
So you did, Matron Eursett. That and so much more, to the glory of your people. Live forever, in us.
Palamera didn’t say anymore, though her mouth opened like she wanted to. Her eyes flitted wildly about in helpless distress, before finally dropping to the sand. Something like defeat and understanding crossed over her features as the panic died. Necessary and inevitable as it was, it made Deros’s heart sink.
I’ll get us free of this, my love. I swear it. At the least, you. If it's the last thing I do, I swear I will. We just have to bide our time and observe. Learn.
All of the Ironbloods suddenly seemed to pique in awareness, with some jumping a bit. Their antennae were clearly twitching, and each brought their hands up to turn them upward like they were listening close.
“What!?” Vaetor Kerrick exclaimed in shocked incredulity. He glanced at the others. “Get that corpse dealt with.” With that, he swiftly ducked down and bolted off, carried away on the powerful legs of his mount, eastward over the rocks and sand.
“You heard him, runts,'' Raetmus bellowed, and with a quick maneuver removed the line that attached the body of Eursett to his mount. “I’ve got something else to see to.” He dropped the cord end in the sand, then bolted off, not directly after the vaetor.
The one that had muttered ‘psychopath’ made some vehement hand sign at the giant’s departing back. “Nok that el le mei'pont. Like he’s some boss man. Nokieri.” Her otherwise lighter accent got much thicker when she cursed.
One of the others laughed as they dismounted and bent down to grab the fallen cord. “I’m sure he would, Elek. Especially if you asked with that fiery attitude.”
More laughter broke out from the mass of them at that, as ‘Elek’ just shook her horned head. “Not for all the gold in Ot Safral, would I,” she muttered.
Semõìn was still laughing as he dismounted and approached Deros, glancing once at his comrade to call, “Oda, oda, come on, Paetas! Mount her up. This isn’t our mess, let’s go see what happened.” With those words he took hold of Deros by the sides and lifted him up with tragic ease, carrying him over to his beast and setting him atop it toward the front. He was loosely held there as Semõìn mounted after him, immediately behind.
Deros supposed it made sense with him effectively handless and stiff to so many subtle movements, but the whole matter made him feel like a child, all but cradled by an adult. The sit was not comfortable: too wide under his legs and though the strange material was pliable, it was not smooth, as though designed for gripping. The bizarre lever-like implement was in front of Deros, reminiscent of an insect limb with cartilage at the base, but flaring wider up to a knobby top suited to gripping.
Thankfully having no time for mockery about it all, Semõìn quickly raced off on his beast after the vaetor, arm wrapping around Deros to take hold of the knob and tilt it, to almost certainly guide the creature. Deros saw Palamera mounted up much the same, as Paetas prepared to follow them.
Azrom was just getting around to grazing the horizon as they tromped over the hilly landscape. Some of the terrain was loosely familiar, but their angle took them well clear of the watering hole. It amazed Deros that it was not already dark — it had seemed like many hours since those guns had first rang out, but it had been less than an hour.
The vaetor was well ahead, but also quite visible thanks to the frequent ups and downs, and Semõìn kept pace well. The ride jarred Deros horribly — clearly his captor absorbed the shock of the bounding beast far better, and for the life of him Deros could not get into the rhythm of its weird gait, which might mitigate the discomfort. Briefly, he thought of daug’makar, to assist his senses, but it required a measure of inspiration and mental ‘energy’ he simply did not have. The chances of holding onto it were much as their chances in general. All he felt was nausea when he considered it, which was a signal he understood not to ignore, much as it vexed him.
They came to an angled declination, with a path that then wrapped around a very large and sharp great thrust of dark, speckled rock. As they came around the stone, he was shocked by the sudden scene that greeted him, completely hidden until the turn was made.
The rocky path narrowed, and down the shallow ravine of its border was a cluster of over a dozen of the horned soldiers. Some were mounted and some were aground, all focused on a grisly sight laying strewn in the sand and saturated with blood, as well as chalky white ooze. One of the great mounted beasts was fallen, with a broken greatcane spear shaft sticking out of its eye, dead from the singular mortal wound that had obviously produced gouts of vitae.
Further from it laying spread-eagled was one of the soldiers, head ripped off from it in a splatter of white gore, lines like alien veins and nerves running and almost still connected to the too-far neck. But it wasn’t just a neck, and it was obvious the head was not a head, as out of that neck and body was still a man’s bloody head and face, though one eye was nothing but a gory mess.
A man. They’re men — Hamaleen. His skin was red-tinted but quite pale — even paler than the likes of Palamera. Middle-aged, perhaps, and rather gaunt. His head, which seemed ridiculously small compared to the great bulk of the armor, was all but shaved, with nothing except a violet fuzz as a crown. The finishing blow had been through the eye, but there were wounds to his neck as well. The only other item of interest was a small red earring of a square shape.
They aren’t invincible. We can kill them. We did.
Semõìn whistled and let loose an amazed string of foreign exclamations, as he navigated his beast down the ravine slowly and carefully, maneuvering his way over to the gathered.
Two of the soldiers were knelt down by the man’s body, examining and speaking with another that stood over them with their hands on their hips. The figure was clearly authoritative, with a small, red, cape-like cloth hanging down from the right shoulder, wrapping around the arm from the chest to the back and coming down just to the elbow. On both sides was a symbol like part of the fabric: three red triangles within the outline of a larger black-lined triangle.
“How is this even possible?” Vaetor Kerrick asked in angry disbelief. He was dismounted and standing next to the authority figure, gazing down at the body like the rest. “Parta! None of these pathetic primitives have the strength to rip an enõìve crown off in combat like that.”
“He was already injured,” said one knelt down, and pointed at the bloody neck area. His accent was very light. “Multiple stabs, barely penetrated, suggesting through the thinner armor. One got deeper, though, and pierced the jugular, it looks like. The removed crown, the eye stabbed through — it was superfluous. He was bleeding out, anyway.”
“They likely didn’t know it,” said the caped one like a sigh. The voice reminded him of Urchon — feminine, middle-aged, and naturally crisp. Commanding attention. She also had a minimal accent. “Most of the blood would be under the damned enõìve. This was an impressive group effort. An ambush to get rid of a lone pursuer. That spear had to be braced into the damned ground to do that. The others that lost them say it was a big, muscled cut and an archer girl that never misses, who moves like lightning. Primers. Explains all of it.”
Daexo and Ryza. The thought filled him with elation: they had gotten away! He felt proud and somehow unsurprised that they had managed the kill. If there were heroes that could figure it all out for their people, it was them. He prayed they would make it back safely. Who else had escaped? Aerion, Urchon? He could hope.
Semõìn dismounted and approached the group from behind, leaving Deros to sit uncomfortably and rather precariously on his mount.
The caped-one noticed and looked over, then did a double-take as she saw Deros. With a displeased sound she gestured and called, “What in the hells, Verrick? Your men are bringing the natives to this scene?”
Verrick turned to notice as well, clearly not expecting it and not at all happy. “Nokieuri le parta, Semõìn! What are you doing?!”
Semõìn only shrugged with his hands out wide. “What does it matter, oh Ordení? Is he going to run and tell?”
Verrick tossed his hands in annoyed exasperation, while the caped-one sighed, then admonished, “Don’t use that for Ironbloods, you blasphemous pont. Not even in jest. I hear it again, you’re getting a demerit.”
Semõìn appeared to take that seriously. He put a hand to his chest, bowed his head to her, and said, “I will obey, Keirtum.” It had the ring of a title more than a name.
“Nokieun auxiliaries,” the keirtum muttered like a curse, shaking her head. “I’ve aged two years at least dealing with you nokheads on this campaign. I’m passing on the next. I don’t care what they say or offer.”
Looking back at the body, Verrick said, “I can see why you called for packs of three at a minimum…”
“It’s been two, but who listens? Hard-headed mavericks, all of you, galavanting off alone, tempting fate. It answered once again. There’s not a casualty we’ve had that was unavoidable, but here we are. And Daekier was one of our best scouts.”
“Some casualties were expected, Keirtum. It’s only reasonable.”
“I’d rather zero stains on our record fighting against wild stick-throwers. And these made off with two of our pontin guns. If we don’t retrieve them, there’s no way to get around reporting it. Lost tech is worse than a dead body.”
Deros heard a gasp behind him, and in turning to see found himself teetering in the imbalance with no way to grab hold. He pitched his body in the opposite direction as his foot scraped for a hold, but it was a losing effort. In an instinctive, agile save of neck and dignity, he flipped his leg from around one side and it somehow — just barely — found the faux-stirrup, even as he was falling backward. He pushed off with it, more or less hopping to try and land on his feet.
He did — though not well and slipping on his heels — so he plopped down onto his rump, thankfully without damage due to the loose sand under him. There were a few chuckles and mild indiscernible comments from those that noticed, though the mood was overall muted around the corpse.
Paetas and Palamera were the ones that had been behind, with the latter likely responsible for the gasp. Paetas made a whistling sound at Deros’s agile feat, having likely seen the entirety, though she said nothing. Palamera meanwhile just appeared relieved — again — that he’d managed to avoid getting himself killed.
Deros averted his eyes and rose quickly, walking slightly up the incline with what slack the cord gave him, to have a view of the body.
“How many did we get?” Kerrick asked of the keirtum.
“Of all reported, five. One other got away with these two devils. One of the younger, I hear. The other was the forward scout. I’m not surprised. When the call went out, he wasn’t in a convenient spot, and he’d have heard the gunfire. He basically just disappeared in this forsaken-ass ponthole we’re in. That’s how it goes, though. Good hiding terrain for us is good hiding terrain for the natives. We’ll catch them all in the flats when they inevitably try back the way they came. So, the only other escapee is yours. If that’s an accurate assessment? A story I’d like to hear, regardless.”
“Ah, well, I need to talk to you about it, yes. Privately.”
“Great,” she replied with a sigh. They both walked off a short ways and began speaking low and close, the keirtum clearly getting annoyed very quickly, with vehement hand gestures.
Deros considered eavesdropping with his ability, as he felt he could manage it after becoming a bit revitalized by the escape news. But he felt certain that they were talking about Eursett, and if he used daug’makar, he might tax himself where he’d legitimately need it later. So he resisted the urge.
Bariaki got away. He’ll make it home, for sure. It was laughable that they thought they’d catch him. Bariaki was a ghost when he wanted to be. And Deros understood why he was so good, after last night. A burning passion to prevent this exact fear — a higher calling. With vital news to deliver to his people, surely even the gods couldn’t stop him.
‘The younger one’ could only mean Aerion. He wasn’t sure how Urchon and Aerion had been separated, but it couldn’t be good. At least everyone else was alive…
From the south, Deros observed a rider that he identified as Raetmus due to sheer size as well as the unique ‘eyes’ of the helmet. When Raetmus noticed the full details of the body he gave an alarmed, wordless cry and jumped off of his mount to rush over. He pushed the nearby kneeling soldier out of the way roughly as he fell to his knees and bent over the corpse, initially saying something unintelligible in tones of great anguish.
“Nokieurin, pathetic swine,” he snarled, voice at once both near sobbing and furious, as his hand touched the non-ruined side of the man’s face shakily. “You let a bunch of worthless insects swarm the best of you. So far beyond your prowess, none of you pigrats were there to watch the back of an eagle, were you? Were you? Now he’s just a nest for worms. It should’ve been one of you — ten of you!”
Though a tragic sight and sound that left the gathered speechless in response, Deros felt very little of it. In fact, the order and irony of it felt like perfect destiny, felt satisfying. Because they all deserved it — because the murderer got what was coming to him.
“Retribution,” Deros found himself saying out loud, without even intending to. But he also didn’t stop. “Blood for blood. Trophy for trophy, no less. The price you pay here will only grow steeper.”
“Shut your noki ass up, kessa, before I-,” Kerrick began as he approached Deros, but an absolute roar from Raetmus silenced him.
Raetmus jerked upward as he practically charged at Deros on a clearly murderous march. Kerrick tried to forestall him with warning and a grabbed arm, but he shook it off like a man would a child and barreled onward.
Deros edged toward the mount he was tied to, thinking to have more slack, and quickly summoned daug’makar and the farsense, a bit like attempting heavy lifting at the end of a day of arduous training. Nonetheless, he managed it, for all the good it would do him. He had no chance with the bonds around him. Within the sphere of the farsense, the makar’osa seemed to reverberate — threads of potential ready to magnify… or so his imagination conjured in his fear. Either way, it was useless. He could look and hear as hard as he wanted — it could not change his fate, and fancies beyond it would only dull the needed reactions to the cold, hard reality.
Just as the great horned monster was on him, the keirtum came between them, shouting commandingly, “Hold, agreós!” with two fingers thrust up high, every manner of it like that of battle. The command, more than the much smaller interjected body, seemed to stop Raetmus dead in his tracks.
“Take one more nokieun step,” the keirtum warned with supreme venom, “and see what happens, soldier. Go ahead and try me.”
The beast of a ‘man’ seemed to seeth, barely controlling his rage, one hand clenching and unclenching. “Let me make an example out of this scum, Keirtum. What’s one bug squashed amongst the rest?”
“Not either of our decisions, Raetmus. You are nothing but the orders handed you, out here. You already ignored your vaetor, which would be insubordination and earn you a mountain of trouble. You’re grieving — fine. We’ll let it slide ‘cause I don’t want the paperwork. Now. Walk away.”
Raetmus struggled with it. He shook his head, visibly breathing deep, as Deros looked on silently over the shoulder of a guardian that felt about half as big as he needed. Half-turning away, Raetmus seemed unable to help himself and jerked his hand up, pointing right at Deros vehemently. “You’ll pay for that mouth,” the giant snarled with all indication of clenched teeth under the plates of the helm. “Blood for blood, is it? A thousand of you wouldn’t be equal, but it’ll do. Enjoy your sanctuary while you can, tribal.”
With that, he spun and stormed off.
The keirtum called after him, “If this boy has one hair on his head harmed, you’ll be held responsible. You will answer to the ozmentus and to the Shapers. You’ll be lucky not to end up in the sanitarium.”
The words did not seem to have any effect on Raetmus as he knelt down on one knee by the corpse and moved his hand to make its non-ruined eyelid close. He said words very low then rose and strolled to his mount, ignoring everyone and eventually trotting off.
“You made an enemy out of a madman, boy,” the keirtum said without turning around. “Hope it was worth it.”
And here I was trying not to antagonize them. What great work. Pay for my mouth? I have before. Not like this. Damn it. Why did I say that?
“It definitely wasn’t,” Deros answered. Almost involuntarily for the weariness suddenly hitting him, he let his daug’makar evaporate away.
“At least you know that much.”
“He can’t possibly get away with the killing he’s threatening, can he? You wouldn’t allow it, by the sound of things.”
“No. Unless he deserts, I suppose. But we’d hunt him down. I don’t think he will. And if anyone dies mysteriously within five kilometers of him, he’s getting detained and booted. At the very least. He might have friends in high places, but they can’t do miracles.”
Kerrick walked up to them, possibly glaring at Deros, though it was hard to tell. “What am I supposed to do? Raetmus is a spinning rocket even without this, and the only nokieuri that could get through to him is the one napping in the sand on us, dead as Relentara.”
“More like the one that made the monster,” she said, sighing. “After he’s cooled off, tell your man he’s reassigned. Mm… Sekkas Víbum. Yes. Monsien won’t put up with any auxiliary parta, much less his mountain of it. He can pick someone to exchange.”
“Understood, Keirtum.” Rather than relief though, there was possibly even a note of offense in his tone.
Turning suddenly, the woman-commander called out loudly, “Semõìn! Paetas! These two quarin are entirely your responsibility, and I expect them to survive all the way back to Cajhor. If they don’t, I’ll hold you accountable and see that you are punished. Understood?”
They both barked, “Et, Keirtum,” though Paetas added ‘Soriel’ at the end.
“Good. Now get on your rekasí and get them downriver yesterday, Ironbloods. The others should be en route or underway, instead of screwing around here, gawking at corpses.”
The keirtum left them without further words, heading over to speak with the others by the body, where one soldier had moved the helmet back onto the head with a great deal of excess ooze — some of it clear and running and some chalky white and viscous, much like bug guts.
Semõìn approached Deros as Kerrick mounted up himself, while Paetas seemed to wait for them. Palamera had her eyes on the sand, though worry still stained her features. With a pang, Deros suddenly realized he’d endangered her with his words as well. If Raetmus discovered their connection, he might target her. With a surge of emotion, Deros’s jaw clenched and he swore within himself he would not let that happen.
“Up you go, hotpont,” Semõìn said as he once again lifted Deros up and placed him into the saddle, then settled himself as well, behind. Deros’s eyes lingered on the form underneath him, the material so much like the Ironblood’s alien armor. The beast’s snout, covered, mouthless. Some great animal… with an enclosing living armor suit around it? More ridiculous absurdities. He could not get his head around it.
Kerrick rode by, lingering briefly in front of them, this time rather clearly casting a glare at Deros. “I should’ve snapped your neck when I had the chance, you little kessa.” He then rode on past, Semõìn laughing as he turned his beast around to follow.
“What is quarin, Semõìn?” Deros ventured to ask, needing little effort not to care about Kerrick’s words. There were many words they uttered that he wasn’t familiar with, but most were plainly curses. Quarin sounded as if it were less crude, somehow, especially as ‘Soriel’ seemed less crude than the others to begin with.
“The classless and casteless,” Semõìn replied as they rode back up the ravine at a slow pace. “Plural. Quari, singular. Nobodies without the implicit rights of the societal roles.”
“Slaves. You’re saying we’re slaves. Property.”
The monstrous soldier made a sound a cross between a sigh and a laugh. “Stupid Prettyboy Tribal. Stuck in your primitive outlook. No. Quari, you are quari. Nokieun parta. Still have rules to follow, but you can’t have citizen rights when you’re not even Cerovuân — not even Cajhoran. Oda, tell me this, tribal: how does it work in your pontnok village?”
“We are all citizens. All have rights. We don’t keep slaves.”
“And outsiders? Barbarians?”
“They have rights as guests if they come as one. It’s not as if I could beat bloody a trader or traveler and not face consequences. But what you do is far worse, isn’t it? You invade communities, take and capture. Pillage and destroy. Treat people like animals. And you pretend you are the civilized ones.”
Semõìn laughed mockingly. “You are a real live one, aren’t you, kampriço? I don’t think I’m civilized. But I don’t make the rules, just execute them. You’re primitive because your tech is inferior, your society is inferior, you’re inferior. Pathetic. And whatever peaceful, noble, skrófa smokeshow of a village you got, this whole scattered, sorry excuse for a civilization does the same and worse as us all over. You know about slaves because there’s slavery, et? You’re just sticking your heads in the sand and trying to carve out a nice life while everything else goes to pont. Well, not anymore, tribal! Not sure what the Shapers have planned, but we’re just getting started, I bet. So just shut up, accept it, and maybe you’ll see this backwater… desert finally advance.”
Deros found himself scowling, ready to rebuke so much of his captor’s words, but instead he took a deep breath and swallowed it. Held his tongue. He knew it was likely to get him in trouble again if he loosed it.
It’s just information. Pushing a little can bring it forth and shine a light, but too much will burn me. I need them tolerant and talkative, not antagonized.
“Desert, is it?” Deros asked instead, trying to keep the scowl out of his voice. “Is where you’re from not? This Cajhor?”
“No,” Semõìn replied, bemused. “Colder. Wetter. More life. Completely different, kampriço. You’ll see it, don’t worry.”
“You’re from the north, then? Over the mountains, the north pole? Or… south? Beyond the equator, on the bottom of the planet?”
No one knew anything about the south, as supposedly even before the equator it was too desolate and hot to cross, but the north had rumors. The mountains became inaccessible across a vast stretch, but beyond was a cold ocean of ‘endless’ water and ice. Supposedly somewhere far to the west and north, it was more accessible but blocked by an isolated, cannibalistic people known by various names: Storm Spirits, Little Giants, Watermen, The Furfaced. Some were more realistic than others.
There was a burst of surprised laughter in answer to Deros’s questions. “Wahz, kampriço! All these big words. Planet, you say? Like some big, fat sphere, right? Seems odd.” His tone was flagrantly patronizing and sarcastic. “Doesn’t the land just go flat until we fall off?”
Turning around, craning his head to look up at the implacable face of the alien helmet sidelong, Deros felt all the pieces jumbling around and trying to come together in his head. A certain possibility had been at the back of his mind until he had seen the Hamaleen face of the dead soldier: that the bizarre creatures were from another world. The face made him think of them as natives, and so, from Hamellion. As conventional sanity desired. But just as Esteron of lore hinted, the invaders hinted much of a more fantastic origin. Guns, advanced technology, alien organisms. Ironbloods, ‘made’ for war, which was hard to fathom after the unmasking. And there were the complaints and derision about the foreign environment.
That suddenly recalled something that had slipped his mind. Raetmus complaining about…
“You’re from another planet,” Deros said up into the strange, faux face. “One with a different gravity.” It was more an accusation, as he could hardly know. But Raetmus had claimed gravity had thrown his aim. Only another celestial body could have some significant difference, as he surmised from his old lessons. That or being so far away from any body that one was in the airless, lifeless void between, which none could be. Raetmus might’ve been making an excuse or simply lying, but that hardly mattered. It was enough of a difference for him to mention.
His captor and keeper just shook his head and laughed for a long spell. Deros looked away, staring out at the landscape ahead. At nothing. The implication was shocking. Insane. But somehow, he believed himself right, even with the uncertain evidence. Another world…
“Just wait and see, kampriço,” Semõìn finally said. “Sights you won’t believe. Magnificent ones! Maybe we’ll bring it here, too — Shapers transform your pont backwater to something better. One day. Ki Ordení shameant ki lunae!”
Deros didn’t ask what it meant, couldn’t say any more for the lump in his throat and the storm in his mind. People from another world. As once before? Their ancient ancestors?
The gods. Have the gods come for us? Have the gods returned? The thought annoyed him even as it came, as did his sheer awe at the prospect. Old superstitions and beliefs won the emotional round, however briefly, as he tried to banish them and keep his wits and logic about him. He had no room for awe — had to keep his hatred and rejection of them to the fore. Anger, to get Palamera away, to see the opportunities as they arose…
But then, such emotions had not been doing very well for him.
It is easiest to think of the captors as having a vaguely French accent, the thicker ones with a bit of Swahili. This is just a guide and has nothing to do with those 'for real'. Slightly off words are intentional.
õì = together like this is pronounced 'WAH'
ç = 's' sound as in 'police', as apposed to a presumed 'k' sound
ieu = IH-EHYOO (like the three letters smooshed together)
eant = EE-AHN, heavy on a twangy 'AH', with the hint of 't', where the tongue is cupped below, almost 'nuh'
aun(i) baego - son of killers (sons of killers); perhaps means something like 'badass(es)'
Chapter 12:
All the Bloody Rejoins
I have failed. Her. My people. Everyone.
Trying to stay calm through measured breaths despite being completely restrained by the lifelike fibers, Deros opened his eyes to see Palamera running his way, somehow dodging around the nearest guard, who was cursing unintelligibly and dismounting. Meanwhile, the one that had shot Deros just watched it all and laughed, holstering his weapon once more. Deros’s spear had been simply leaning up against him, and he grabbed it again with a pause, as if unsure what to do with it.
“Wouldn’t touch him, girl,” the giant called as he maneuvered the spear into a horizontal position. “Stays sticky up to a minute. Less in this dry-ass ponthole, but still.” With that, he brought the spear down over his knee, breaking it cleanly in half with a sharp crack. He tossed the blunt end down and kept hold of the spear end. Deros could hardly care — it was the least of his worries, and perhaps all too appropriate.
Palamera dropped beside Deros, touching a hand to his cheek and forming makar’osa simultaneously to check his health, the telltale flows arcing through him. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Deros…”
“I’m sorry, Palamera,” Deros said, staring up at her. “For everything.”
She shook her head and opened her mouth to reply, but the dismounted figure grabbed her by an arm and jerked her away and up, eliciting a yelp and a burst of resistance from the Hospitaller, but the grip was like unyielding iron.
“Oda! Enough to that, girl!” The maybe-feminine demon growled in that thickest of all accents. “Told you to stay out! Nokieu!”
Deros glared up at her, feeling an untempered rage boiling up in him. “Hurt her and I promise you: I will kill you. If it’s the last thing I do.”
They all laughed in their tinny way, like it was a fabulous joke. Palamera had ceased struggling and was looking worriedly from them to Deros. She certainly didn’t approve of the bravado. Deros wasn’t sure he did either. It had just burst out of him.
The presumable leader-type did not seem concerned or offended, though. He made some vague gesture to the side without looking, to which his mount eagerly came back to him, tail flicking back and forth behind it. Gazing down at Deros, he said, “Still think you’re a right hard nokieuri, et, boy? Parta. Just watch how far you push. When we push back, soft primitives like you can pop.”
The figure turned to climb back onto his massive mount, into the strange contoured saddleback formed right out of its plated hide, of apparently softer material. There weren’t stirrups so much as grooves or indentations within it. “Behave yourself,” he continued casually, “and you will not be harmed. Understood?”
I achieve nothing by antagonizing them, and much by appearing obedient. It sickened him to even think it as an Azakan, especially as ‘appearing’ and ‘being’ seemed semantical. But ultimately the advantages were all theirs, and he needed… information.
The mounted demon approached closer and leaned down, looming over once more, while pointing Deros’s own spear down at him. “Understood?” His tone was demanding and threatening.
Deros swallowed down pride and spite as he gazed up into the monster’s gleaming, iridescent eyes. He tried also to fight down his panic and even sheer nausea at the very idea of being a captive. “Yes,” he managed.
“Good.” The creature straightened and lifted the half-spear up, finally shoving it under the straps of his extensive saddlebags. “I’m glad to see you’re taking to your curriculum.”
“What proof is there that you mean what you say? The unknowns of why you’ve taken us hover over us balefully.”
The figure did not answer immediately, looking away at the others, as if bored with the matter. But finally he said, “Because we’re soldiers, boy. Professionals, with standards of operation, protocols, and rules — which we follow. Mostly. All we really care about is our bonuses at the end of this. Big, juicy, fat ones. Breaking and taking you primitives is just the execution of an order. Simple as that.”
Palamera had been pulled off toward the other monstrous mount, where she was fitted with some sort of clasp and dark cording behind her back, to bind her. More bindings were fitted to her waist, with minimal give so as to be unremovable, then anchored like a line to the beastly steed. The sight scattered thoughts of further pressing questions from Deros’s mind.
A lead. Like she was aloga. Founder damn them! I will kill them all. Hardly in line with his so recent logic, and seemingly hopeless before the reality of being so pathetic as to be wrapped up like meat caught within flatbread. As well wish to walk on the moon as kill even one of them. At best he could hope merely to escape them.
“So long as she isn’t harmed,” Deros spat out instead of what roiled in his head, “I will cooperate.”
The statement seemed to be incuriously ignored as the figure above him called, “Paetas!”
The one that had been binding Palamera looked over, pausing just as she was preparing to mount up herself. “Et, Vaetor?”
“Go retrieve salvage from the corpse. The animal looks to have expired without our assistance. Saves a bullet, anyway.” He turned to the other soldier. “Semõìn, dissolve enough of this primitive’s melnûteur that he can walk and get him secured. Consider yourself his keeper.”
The one called Semõìn was already dismounted and retrieving Deros’s fur cloak, shaking it free of sand. He began rolling it up as he replied, “Zeko, chief. Do I get an extra bonus for that? Malleiu eta le plása?” The words had a vaguely amused air.
The ‘chief’ only grunted, in a manner that gave little confidence.
“Vaetor?” Deros queried. “This means commander?”
The one so titled ignored him, turning his great beast around by unseen pressures to trundle away. The rider then lifted both his hands up to adjust the strange antennae that extended from protrusions on the side of his head, twisting them so they angled further upward to the sky.
Semõìn stowed the wrapped-up cloak into a large saddlebag and walked over to Deros, who still lay prone and motionless. Looking down, he said in his strange accent, “Vaetor Kerrick is the way you should address him, kampriço. He is the squad leader. Ten carabiniers! Auxiliaries, all — and Redstuds. Which means hard pólo auni baego, you hear? Blooded elites. Nok your pont up from one trash village to the next, Prettyboy Tribal.”
He laughed and repeated, ‘Prettyboy Tribal’ to himself indulgently as he fetched some strange implement from his saddlebags and knelt down beside Deros. The item reminded Deros vaguely of a bladder for water but seemed stiffer, and as the top was unscrewed, a nozzle-like end was revealed — reminiscent of some metal applicators for the bottled medicines of Hospitallers he’d seen. But he didn’t recognize the material.
The soldier then carefully pressed the end onto the fibrous bonds wrapping Deros from his thighs to nearly his neck. A clear ooze came out of the nozzle, smelling strange and foul, but the fiber smoked and wilted away where it touched, ooze all but disappearing in the process.
“I suggest you stay still,” Semõìn warned as he worked meticulously. “This parta burns and itches like the nokieu on your skin. You don’t want it in your clothes.”
“Noted,” Deros muttered. From the looks and smell of the stuff, he didn’t doubt it. Unable to look away for his worries — especially because the area being dissolved was at his hips — Deros also resisted distracting his keeper from the work as well, with the many questions in his mind. As the line of dissolving mass crossed to the other side of his torso, he breathed something of a sigh of relief.
Having the time to do so, Deros studied the great form of the creature working its rather subtle art across him. Despite that he’d seen the evidence of everything being alive, he couldn’t shake the feeling of the head being too inexpressive, too stiff and dead. The eyes didn’t move, nor did anything else aside from perhaps twitches of the antennae. It was all on the inside. Like an all-enclosing helmet. A… living helmet? It seemed ludicrous.
Not wanting to pass up the opportunity for information, Deros asked, “Where are you from? What are you called — what are you? As a… species.”
The great massive head shook side-to-side as Semõìn laughed. “Stupid Prettyboy Tribal. Think we’re monsters, do you? Well, nokieu, maybe we are…”
The soldier set aside the dissolver, then in one motion reached under Deros and flipped him over with ease. Deros barely managed to keep his face from being buried in the sand as he turned his head, wincing and stifling a curse. With effort, he adjusted so his head was on the right side to keep an eye on Semõìn to some degree, who’d already picked up the dissolver to continue his work.
“You’ll find it all out in due time, kampriço,” Semõìn said in highly-amused tones, “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you this, though: we’re Ironbloods. The Warborn. A warrior caste — that’s something you tribals understand, et? Only we’re made for it. Kelabrique. In a way that’d make your primitive little brain blow out.” He paused in his efforts a moment to make an ‘explode’ gesture with his hand as well as a sound effect to go with it, laughing before returning to the task.
“No doubt,” Deros said neutrally, despite his annoyance with the ‘Ironblood’ and his endless mockery. ‘Made’ for war? Manufactured? The implication was as disturbing as their appearance. The sort of power capable of such things was that much more frightening as a foe.
We have no chance against them. The idea of them coming and waging war on Miracle Springs filled him with dread. What did Many Sands look like? Surely they’d raided it at the very least. Suddenly he remembered Bariaki’s dream. The entire world broken. Is that what they sought to do? Was the old man prophetic? It seemed absurd. Deros certainly didn’t believe in such things. But the man’s fears had surely been realized on some level. And things he would laugh at if he heard the tale, he’d seen with his own eyes. Nightmares come to life.
I’m sorry, Mister Bariaki. I didn’t believe, and no one else did. No one listened. We should’ve left from the stench and the bird and the omens. The dream. Instinct. Arrogance put us here. It had very suddenly all seemed much more reasonable to have believed. Heeded.
“Made by whom?” Deros found himself asking out loud.
“The Shapers,” came Semõìn’s ominous, perhaps reverent reply. “Your new Ordení. Masters.”
Suddenly Semõìn reached down and grabbed hold of the fibrous mass at Deros’s back to jerk him upward, standing up himself and carrying his captive with him, before finally setting him unsteadily on his feet. Deros’s head spun terribly, where without the grip at his back he’d probably have stumbled back down onto his face.
The horn-crowned, six-eyed head came close, looming over him, leaning down to resonantly whisper, “Scared of us, hotpont? Just imagine who we’re scared of. Best advice you’ll ever hear: don’t cross them. You’re better off dead.”
With that, he grabbed the mass of material more or less hanging loosely at Deros’s waist and ripped it free, leaving only his top torso and arms restrained, and his hands wriggling blessedly free at the top of his thighs. Semõìn released him with a little push, and Deros just barely managed to stay on his feet, stumbling away in the sand.
“Not making a run for it, Prettyboy Tribal?” The carapaced soldier laughed as he bent down to retrieve the dissolving implement and re-cap it. His tone was gleefully taunting. “Maybe ti running headbutt? Bite an ankle?”
Deros didn’t dignify it with an answer, just glared and stood there, subtly testing his maneuverability. The material had give to it, at least, despite the quite uncomfortable pressure and restraint. It was probably impossible to wriggle out of his bonds — at the least, it would take long, arduous effort. He would bide his time. Observe and wait for his moment of escape. Preferably when their guard was worn down.
Looking over toward Palamera, he found her doing the same: watching him worriedly. Her keeper had finished with Graceful’s corpse and was mounted up near the vaetor, who was manipulating his plated mouthpiece… he slid it down to where its top was at his chin and the rest hanging below. A strange, curling, horn-like instrument was brought up and inserted into the opening, its end forming a flared cup that fit within precisely. Fingers worked much like a musical instrument on valves, and once more Deros felt the pressure on his ears and the vague hints of low tones reverberating in the air.
“Maybe you’re not so stupid after all,” Semõìn offered as he approached and wrapped the strange dark cording around Deros’s waist. “In which case, we might get along decently. Don’t make my life difficult, and I’ll let you keep yours. A pretty fair trade, et, kampriço?”
“Truly a pittance on my part,” Deros said vaguely, as he alternated attention between the oddity of the vaetor’s horn calls and watching Semõìn anchor him to a very sturdy-looking, thick hoop formed out of the carapace of his beast. Two of them were at the creature’s back, amidst the saddlebags, while two more could be seen above its shoulders. The cording fused together by some mysterious means and manipulation of hands, rather than using knots.
“That’s the spirit,” his captor said as he put foot to faux-stirrup and raised himself atop his mount, which had turned its head around quite flexibly to look — perhaps at Deros. Its tail nearby flicked around, and once almost slapped Deros in the face, causing him to recoil.
Semõìn turned to look and chuckled, then leaned forward to pat the creature’s plated neck. “Ous evrie, Neki, ous evrie! Watch the tail, girl. Be still. Meltesón.”
The beast — shockingly — made very animal-like, deep whines of a throaty timbre, as it craned to try and look at Semõìn, seemingly anxious to meet his hand with its strange mouthless snout, but found itself unable to. Its tail twitched and flicked somewhat, but ceased the wide and dangerous arcs from before.
Are these truly like aloga? How in blazes do they eat? Every moment spent among the weird beings seemed to confuse him more.
Just as he was thinking how to phrase his next question, four riders came up over the sandy rise to the northwest, one of them dragging someone along by a cord at their feet.
“Eursett!” Palamera cried out, and tried to dash in that direction, to no avail — her face was despairing as she was caught short by the cord at her waist. “What are you doing!? You’ll kill…” She trailed off as she watched, shocked and horrified. Indeed, the clothes tossing around without resistance could be none other than the Hospitaller. The sight bid the worst.
As the small party rode up, Vaetor Kerrick wheeled around and hastily removed the horn from his mouth. “What in the nok le parta, Raetmus? You nokieun pontsekú! Why?!” He gestured in agitation to the dragged form, which stopped as ‘Raetmus’ did. Stopped as still as death.
Raetmus seemed somehow larger even than the others, with eyes curved in a more menacing fashion and the tips of the horns painted red. The great giant just shrugged. “Because she’s dead,” he boomed in an accent similar to Semõìn’s. “Aim is impossible in this pont gravity. Overcompensated. Got her right in the temple.”
“Penetrated before expanding, Vaetor,” said another in distinctively feminine tones, to Deros’s ears. “Some of it even rooted into her brain matter. Perhaps the cadaver is an interesting subject? But we don’t have means of proper preservation…”
“Lucky to even get her,” yet another said. “Wily ass kessa almost got away. Quite an impressive rid-”
“Just shut the nok up, all of you bumbling idiots!” The vaetor additionally let loose a couple of unintelligible strings of words that were likely curses, as he approached and stared down at the corpse, blatantly vexed and looking at it somehow like dung sitting on his personal grounds.
Palamera had dropped down to her knees, staring across the distance at her fallen superior in silent anguish, stunned. Deros looked tentatively over at the splayed tumble of dirty robes. When he saw Eursett’s face, he had to avert his eyes. Blood caked all across one side of her head, the face partly mangled, and any sign of the strange fibers absent. Perhaps dissolved and removed. Her eyes stared lifelessly. He wished he hadn’t looked at all, as the sight was one that was almost certainly burned into his memory forever.
“You four sopheads,” the vaetor continued in weary tones, “will take the corpse and toss it down a cave. And keep your mouth shut about it. I’m still going to pass it up the pipes since every upright kessa out here knows there were ten to account for, but we’re not going to parade the pontin deader around.”
Palamera shot up onto her feet. “You can’t! Sh- the body must be burned. Along with her cothvmesi — her token. A-a medallion on her necklace.”
“Palamera, please,” Deros pleaded. When their eyes met, he shook his head. She did, too, in confusion or denial. She hadn’t accepted the situation; was still in shock. She somehow didn’t absorb that they clearly would not care.
Silence was their only answer initially, as if she were an irrelevant animal that had bleated. The three smaller newcomers shifted around a bit, likely ready to head off and carry out their orders, but they seemed to follow the big one’s lead, who was not departing, nor anxious at all.
Raetmus instead reached into a pouch and pulled out Eursett’s necklace, covered in gems and a few charms of various materials, as well as the telltale larger painted wooden disk of her cothvmesi. It looked like a doll’s ornament in the monster’s hands. He flicked the token with a great finger. “This, little girl? This is mine, now. A trophy. I always keep a trophy to kills, accidental or no.”
Semõìn and a couple of others chuckled at this. The feminine one with the greater vocabulary muttered, ‘psychopath’ low enough that Deros almost didn’t hear. It wasn’t a word he immediately understood, though he recognized the form of it from the dictionary.
Once more was a vision he wished he hadn’t seen: on the token, he spied a child’s crude painting, of herself and a cute rendition of an aloga, with the telltale stable in the background. Eursett had wanted to raise aloga. Just as her family always had.
So you did, Matron Eursett. That and so much more, to the glory of your people. Live forever, in us.
Palamera didn’t say anymore, though her mouth opened like she wanted to. Her eyes flitted wildly about in helpless distress, before finally dropping to the sand. Something like defeat and understanding crossed over her features as the panic died. Necessary and inevitable as it was, it made Deros’s heart sink.
I’ll get us free of this, my love. I swear it. At the least, you. If it's the last thing I do, I swear I will. We just have to bide our time and observe. Learn.
All of the Ironbloods suddenly seemed to pique in awareness, with some jumping a bit. Their antennae were clearly twitching, and each brought their hands up to turn them upward like they were listening close.
“What!?” Vaetor Kerrick exclaimed in shocked incredulity. He glanced at the others. “Get that corpse dealt with.” With that, he swiftly ducked down and bolted off, carried away on the powerful legs of his mount, eastward over the rocks and sand.
“You heard him, runts,'' Raetmus bellowed, and with a quick maneuver removed the line that attached the body of Eursett to his mount. “I’ve got something else to see to.” He dropped the cord end in the sand, then bolted off, not directly after the vaetor.
The one that had muttered ‘psychopath’ made some vehement hand sign at the giant’s departing back. “Nok that el le mei'pont. Like he’s some boss man. Nokieri.” Her otherwise lighter accent got much thicker when she cursed.
One of the others laughed as they dismounted and bent down to grab the fallen cord. “I’m sure he would, Elek. Especially if you asked with that fiery attitude.”
More laughter broke out from the mass of them at that, as ‘Elek’ just shook her horned head. “Not for all the gold in Ot Safral, would I,” she muttered.
Semõìn was still laughing as he dismounted and approached Deros, glancing once at his comrade to call, “Oda, oda, come on, Paetas! Mount her up. This isn’t our mess, let’s go see what happened.” With those words he took hold of Deros by the sides and lifted him up with tragic ease, carrying him over to his beast and setting him atop it toward the front. He was loosely held there as Semõìn mounted after him, immediately behind.
Deros supposed it made sense with him effectively handless and stiff to so many subtle movements, but the whole matter made him feel like a child, all but cradled by an adult. The sit was not comfortable: too wide under his legs and though the strange material was pliable, it was not smooth, as though designed for gripping. The bizarre lever-like implement was in front of Deros, reminiscent of an insect limb with cartilage at the base, but flaring wider up to a knobby top suited to gripping.
Thankfully having no time for mockery about it all, Semõìn quickly raced off on his beast after the vaetor, arm wrapping around Deros to take hold of the knob and tilt it, to almost certainly guide the creature. Deros saw Palamera mounted up much the same, as Paetas prepared to follow them.
Azrom was just getting around to grazing the horizon as they tromped over the hilly landscape. Some of the terrain was loosely familiar, but their angle took them well clear of the watering hole. It amazed Deros that it was not already dark — it had seemed like many hours since those guns had first rang out, but it had been less than an hour.
The vaetor was well ahead, but also quite visible thanks to the frequent ups and downs, and Semõìn kept pace well. The ride jarred Deros horribly — clearly his captor absorbed the shock of the bounding beast far better, and for the life of him Deros could not get into the rhythm of its weird gait, which might mitigate the discomfort. Briefly, he thought of daug’makar, to assist his senses, but it required a measure of inspiration and mental ‘energy’ he simply did not have. The chances of holding onto it were much as their chances in general. All he felt was nausea when he considered it, which was a signal he understood not to ignore, much as it vexed him.
They came to an angled declination, with a path that then wrapped around a very large and sharp great thrust of dark, speckled rock. As they came around the stone, he was shocked by the sudden scene that greeted him, completely hidden until the turn was made.
The rocky path narrowed, and down the shallow ravine of its border was a cluster of over a dozen of the horned soldiers. Some were mounted and some were aground, all focused on a grisly sight laying strewn in the sand and saturated with blood, as well as chalky white ooze. One of the great mounted beasts was fallen, with a broken greatcane spear shaft sticking out of its eye, dead from the singular mortal wound that had obviously produced gouts of vitae.
Further from it laying spread-eagled was one of the soldiers, head ripped off from it in a splatter of white gore, lines like alien veins and nerves running and almost still connected to the too-far neck. But it wasn’t just a neck, and it was obvious the head was not a head, as out of that neck and body was still a man’s bloody head and face, though one eye was nothing but a gory mess.
A man. They’re men — Hamaleen. His skin was red-tinted but quite pale — even paler than the likes of Palamera. Middle-aged, perhaps, and rather gaunt. His head, which seemed ridiculously small compared to the great bulk of the armor, was all but shaved, with nothing except a violet fuzz as a crown. The finishing blow had been through the eye, but there were wounds to his neck as well. The only other item of interest was a small red earring of a square shape.
They aren’t invincible. We can kill them. We did.
Semõìn whistled and let loose an amazed string of foreign exclamations, as he navigated his beast down the ravine slowly and carefully, maneuvering his way over to the gathered.
Two of the soldiers were knelt down by the man’s body, examining and speaking with another that stood over them with their hands on their hips. The figure was clearly authoritative, with a small, red, cape-like cloth hanging down from the right shoulder, wrapping around the arm from the chest to the back and coming down just to the elbow. On both sides was a symbol like part of the fabric: three red triangles within the outline of a larger black-lined triangle.
“How is this even possible?” Vaetor Kerrick asked in angry disbelief. He was dismounted and standing next to the authority figure, gazing down at the body like the rest. “Parta! None of these pathetic primitives have the strength to rip an enõìve crown off in combat like that.”
“He was already injured,” said one knelt down, and pointed at the bloody neck area. His accent was very light. “Multiple stabs, barely penetrated, suggesting through the thinner armor. One got deeper, though, and pierced the jugular, it looks like. The removed crown, the eye stabbed through — it was superfluous. He was bleeding out, anyway.”
“They likely didn’t know it,” said the caped one like a sigh. The voice reminded him of Urchon — feminine, middle-aged, and naturally crisp. Commanding attention. She also had a minimal accent. “Most of the blood would be under the damned enõìve. This was an impressive group effort. An ambush to get rid of a lone pursuer. That spear had to be braced into the damned ground to do that. The others that lost them say it was a big, muscled cut and an archer girl that never misses, who moves like lightning. Primers. Explains all of it.”
Daexo and Ryza. The thought filled him with elation: they had gotten away! He felt proud and somehow unsurprised that they had managed the kill. If there were heroes that could figure it all out for their people, it was them. He prayed they would make it back safely. Who else had escaped? Aerion, Urchon? He could hope.
Semõìn dismounted and approached the group from behind, leaving Deros to sit uncomfortably and rather precariously on his mount.
The caped-one noticed and looked over, then did a double-take as she saw Deros. With a displeased sound she gestured and called, “What in the hells, Verrick? Your men are bringing the natives to this scene?”
Verrick turned to notice as well, clearly not expecting it and not at all happy. “Nokieuri le parta, Semõìn! What are you doing?!”
Semõìn only shrugged with his hands out wide. “What does it matter, oh Ordení? Is he going to run and tell?”
Verrick tossed his hands in annoyed exasperation, while the caped-one sighed, then admonished, “Don’t use that for Ironbloods, you blasphemous pont. Not even in jest. I hear it again, you’re getting a demerit.”
Semõìn appeared to take that seriously. He put a hand to his chest, bowed his head to her, and said, “I will obey, Keirtum.” It had the ring of a title more than a name.
“Nokieun auxiliaries,” the keirtum muttered like a curse, shaking her head. “I’ve aged two years at least dealing with you nokheads on this campaign. I’m passing on the next. I don’t care what they say or offer.”
Looking back at the body, Verrick said, “I can see why you called for packs of three at a minimum…”
“It’s been two, but who listens? Hard-headed mavericks, all of you, galavanting off alone, tempting fate. It answered once again. There’s not a casualty we’ve had that was unavoidable, but here we are. And Daekier was one of our best scouts.”
“Some casualties were expected, Keirtum. It’s only reasonable.”
“I’d rather zero stains on our record fighting against wild stick-throwers. And these made off with two of our pontin guns. If we don’t retrieve them, there’s no way to get around reporting it. Lost tech is worse than a dead body.”
Deros heard a gasp behind him, and in turning to see found himself teetering in the imbalance with no way to grab hold. He pitched his body in the opposite direction as his foot scraped for a hold, but it was a losing effort. In an instinctive, agile save of neck and dignity, he flipped his leg from around one side and it somehow — just barely — found the faux-stirrup, even as he was falling backward. He pushed off with it, more or less hopping to try and land on his feet.
He did — though not well and slipping on his heels — so he plopped down onto his rump, thankfully without damage due to the loose sand under him. There were a few chuckles and mild indiscernible comments from those that noticed, though the mood was overall muted around the corpse.
Paetas and Palamera were the ones that had been behind, with the latter likely responsible for the gasp. Paetas made a whistling sound at Deros’s agile feat, having likely seen the entirety, though she said nothing. Palamera meanwhile just appeared relieved — again — that he’d managed to avoid getting himself killed.
Deros averted his eyes and rose quickly, walking slightly up the incline with what slack the cord gave him, to have a view of the body.
“How many did we get?” Kerrick asked of the keirtum.
“Of all reported, five. One other got away with these two devils. One of the younger, I hear. The other was the forward scout. I’m not surprised. When the call went out, he wasn’t in a convenient spot, and he’d have heard the gunfire. He basically just disappeared in this forsaken-ass ponthole we’re in. That’s how it goes, though. Good hiding terrain for us is good hiding terrain for the natives. We’ll catch them all in the flats when they inevitably try back the way they came. So, the only other escapee is yours. If that’s an accurate assessment? A story I’d like to hear, regardless.”
“Ah, well, I need to talk to you about it, yes. Privately.”
“Great,” she replied with a sigh. They both walked off a short ways and began speaking low and close, the keirtum clearly getting annoyed very quickly, with vehement hand gestures.
Deros considered eavesdropping with his ability, as he felt he could manage it after becoming a bit revitalized by the escape news. But he felt certain that they were talking about Eursett, and if he used daug’makar, he might tax himself where he’d legitimately need it later. So he resisted the urge.
Bariaki got away. He’ll make it home, for sure. It was laughable that they thought they’d catch him. Bariaki was a ghost when he wanted to be. And Deros understood why he was so good, after last night. A burning passion to prevent this exact fear — a higher calling. With vital news to deliver to his people, surely even the gods couldn’t stop him.
‘The younger one’ could only mean Aerion. He wasn’t sure how Urchon and Aerion had been separated, but it couldn’t be good. At least everyone else was alive…
From the south, Deros observed a rider that he identified as Raetmus due to sheer size as well as the unique ‘eyes’ of the helmet. When Raetmus noticed the full details of the body he gave an alarmed, wordless cry and jumped off of his mount to rush over. He pushed the nearby kneeling soldier out of the way roughly as he fell to his knees and bent over the corpse, initially saying something unintelligible in tones of great anguish.
“Nokieurin, pathetic swine,” he snarled, voice at once both near sobbing and furious, as his hand touched the non-ruined side of the man’s face shakily. “You let a bunch of worthless insects swarm the best of you. So far beyond your prowess, none of you pigrats were there to watch the back of an eagle, were you? Were you? Now he’s just a nest for worms. It should’ve been one of you — ten of you!”
Though a tragic sight and sound that left the gathered speechless in response, Deros felt very little of it. In fact, the order and irony of it felt like perfect destiny, felt satisfying. Because they all deserved it — because the murderer got what was coming to him.
“Retribution,” Deros found himself saying out loud, without even intending to. But he also didn’t stop. “Blood for blood. Trophy for trophy, no less. The price you pay here will only grow steeper.”
“Shut your noki ass up, kessa, before I-,” Kerrick began as he approached Deros, but an absolute roar from Raetmus silenced him.
Raetmus jerked upward as he practically charged at Deros on a clearly murderous march. Kerrick tried to forestall him with warning and a grabbed arm, but he shook it off like a man would a child and barreled onward.
Deros edged toward the mount he was tied to, thinking to have more slack, and quickly summoned daug’makar and the farsense, a bit like attempting heavy lifting at the end of a day of arduous training. Nonetheless, he managed it, for all the good it would do him. He had no chance with the bonds around him. Within the sphere of the farsense, the makar’osa seemed to reverberate — threads of potential ready to magnify… or so his imagination conjured in his fear. Either way, it was useless. He could look and hear as hard as he wanted — it could not change his fate, and fancies beyond it would only dull the needed reactions to the cold, hard reality.
Just as the great horned monster was on him, the keirtum came between them, shouting commandingly, “Hold, agreós!” with two fingers thrust up high, every manner of it like that of battle. The command, more than the much smaller interjected body, seemed to stop Raetmus dead in his tracks.
“Take one more nokieun step,” the keirtum warned with supreme venom, “and see what happens, soldier. Go ahead and try me.”
The beast of a ‘man’ seemed to seeth, barely controlling his rage, one hand clenching and unclenching. “Let me make an example out of this scum, Keirtum. What’s one bug squashed amongst the rest?”
“Not either of our decisions, Raetmus. You are nothing but the orders handed you, out here. You already ignored your vaetor, which would be insubordination and earn you a mountain of trouble. You’re grieving — fine. We’ll let it slide ‘cause I don’t want the paperwork. Now. Walk away.”
Raetmus struggled with it. He shook his head, visibly breathing deep, as Deros looked on silently over the shoulder of a guardian that felt about half as big as he needed. Half-turning away, Raetmus seemed unable to help himself and jerked his hand up, pointing right at Deros vehemently. “You’ll pay for that mouth,” the giant snarled with all indication of clenched teeth under the plates of the helm. “Blood for blood, is it? A thousand of you wouldn’t be equal, but it’ll do. Enjoy your sanctuary while you can, tribal.”
With that, he spun and stormed off.
The keirtum called after him, “If this boy has one hair on his head harmed, you’ll be held responsible. You will answer to the ozmentus and to the Shapers. You’ll be lucky not to end up in the sanitarium.”
The words did not seem to have any effect on Raetmus as he knelt down on one knee by the corpse and moved his hand to make its non-ruined eyelid close. He said words very low then rose and strolled to his mount, ignoring everyone and eventually trotting off.
“You made an enemy out of a madman, boy,” the keirtum said without turning around. “Hope it was worth it.”
And here I was trying not to antagonize them. What great work. Pay for my mouth? I have before. Not like this. Damn it. Why did I say that?
“It definitely wasn’t,” Deros answered. Almost involuntarily for the weariness suddenly hitting him, he let his daug’makar evaporate away.
“At least you know that much.”
“He can’t possibly get away with the killing he’s threatening, can he? You wouldn’t allow it, by the sound of things.”
“No. Unless he deserts, I suppose. But we’d hunt him down. I don’t think he will. And if anyone dies mysteriously within five kilometers of him, he’s getting detained and booted. At the very least. He might have friends in high places, but they can’t do miracles.”
Kerrick walked up to them, possibly glaring at Deros, though it was hard to tell. “What am I supposed to do? Raetmus is a spinning rocket even without this, and the only nokieuri that could get through to him is the one napping in the sand on us, dead as Relentara.”
“More like the one that made the monster,” she said, sighing. “After he’s cooled off, tell your man he’s reassigned. Mm… Sekkas Víbum. Yes. Monsien won’t put up with any auxiliary parta, much less his mountain of it. He can pick someone to exchange.”
“Understood, Keirtum.” Rather than relief though, there was possibly even a note of offense in his tone.
Turning suddenly, the woman-commander called out loudly, “Semõìn! Paetas! These two quarin are entirely your responsibility, and I expect them to survive all the way back to Cajhor. If they don’t, I’ll hold you accountable and see that you are punished. Understood?”
They both barked, “Et, Keirtum,” though Paetas added ‘Soriel’ at the end.
“Good. Now get on your rekasí and get them downriver yesterday, Ironbloods. The others should be en route or underway, instead of screwing around here, gawking at corpses.”
The keirtum left them without further words, heading over to speak with the others by the body, where one soldier had moved the helmet back onto the head with a great deal of excess ooze — some of it clear and running and some chalky white and viscous, much like bug guts.
Semõìn approached Deros as Kerrick mounted up himself, while Paetas seemed to wait for them. Palamera had her eyes on the sand, though worry still stained her features. With a pang, Deros suddenly realized he’d endangered her with his words as well. If Raetmus discovered their connection, he might target her. With a surge of emotion, Deros’s jaw clenched and he swore within himself he would not let that happen.
“Up you go, hotpont,” Semõìn said as he once again lifted Deros up and placed him into the saddle, then settled himself as well, behind. Deros’s eyes lingered on the form underneath him, the material so much like the Ironblood’s alien armor. The beast’s snout, covered, mouthless. Some great animal… with an enclosing living armor suit around it? More ridiculous absurdities. He could not get his head around it.
Kerrick rode by, lingering briefly in front of them, this time rather clearly casting a glare at Deros. “I should’ve snapped your neck when I had the chance, you little kessa.” He then rode on past, Semõìn laughing as he turned his beast around to follow.
“What is quarin, Semõìn?” Deros ventured to ask, needing little effort not to care about Kerrick’s words. There were many words they uttered that he wasn’t familiar with, but most were plainly curses. Quarin sounded as if it were less crude, somehow, especially as ‘Soriel’ seemed less crude than the others to begin with.
“The classless and casteless,” Semõìn replied as they rode back up the ravine at a slow pace. “Plural. Quari, singular. Nobodies without the implicit rights of the societal roles.”
“Slaves. You’re saying we’re slaves. Property.”
The monstrous soldier made a sound a cross between a sigh and a laugh. “Stupid Prettyboy Tribal. Stuck in your primitive outlook. No. Quari, you are quari. Nokieun parta. Still have rules to follow, but you can’t have citizen rights when you’re not even Cerovuân — not even Cajhoran. Oda, tell me this, tribal: how does it work in your pontnok village?”
“We are all citizens. All have rights. We don’t keep slaves.”
“And outsiders? Barbarians?”
“They have rights as guests if they come as one. It’s not as if I could beat bloody a trader or traveler and not face consequences. But what you do is far worse, isn’t it? You invade communities, take and capture. Pillage and destroy. Treat people like animals. And you pretend you are the civilized ones.”
Semõìn laughed mockingly. “You are a real live one, aren’t you, kampriço? I don’t think I’m civilized. But I don’t make the rules, just execute them. You’re primitive because your tech is inferior, your society is inferior, you’re inferior. Pathetic. And whatever peaceful, noble, skrófa smokeshow of a village you got, this whole scattered, sorry excuse for a civilization does the same and worse as us all over. You know about slaves because there’s slavery, et? You’re just sticking your heads in the sand and trying to carve out a nice life while everything else goes to pont. Well, not anymore, tribal! Not sure what the Shapers have planned, but we’re just getting started, I bet. So just shut up, accept it, and maybe you’ll see this backwater… desert finally advance.”
Deros found himself scowling, ready to rebuke so much of his captor’s words, but instead he took a deep breath and swallowed it. Held his tongue. He knew it was likely to get him in trouble again if he loosed it.
It’s just information. Pushing a little can bring it forth and shine a light, but too much will burn me. I need them tolerant and talkative, not antagonized.
“Desert, is it?” Deros asked instead, trying to keep the scowl out of his voice. “Is where you’re from not? This Cajhor?”
“No,” Semõìn replied, bemused. “Colder. Wetter. More life. Completely different, kampriço. You’ll see it, don’t worry.”
“You’re from the north, then? Over the mountains, the north pole? Or… south? Beyond the equator, on the bottom of the planet?”
No one knew anything about the south, as supposedly even before the equator it was too desolate and hot to cross, but the north had rumors. The mountains became inaccessible across a vast stretch, but beyond was a cold ocean of ‘endless’ water and ice. Supposedly somewhere far to the west and north, it was more accessible but blocked by an isolated, cannibalistic people known by various names: Storm Spirits, Little Giants, Watermen, The Furfaced. Some were more realistic than others.
There was a burst of surprised laughter in answer to Deros’s questions. “Wahz, kampriço! All these big words. Planet, you say? Like some big, fat sphere, right? Seems odd.” His tone was flagrantly patronizing and sarcastic. “Doesn’t the land just go flat until we fall off?”
Turning around, craning his head to look up at the implacable face of the alien helmet sidelong, Deros felt all the pieces jumbling around and trying to come together in his head. A certain possibility had been at the back of his mind until he had seen the Hamaleen face of the dead soldier: that the bizarre creatures were from another world. The face made him think of them as natives, and so, from Hamellion. As conventional sanity desired. But just as Esteron of lore hinted, the invaders hinted much of a more fantastic origin. Guns, advanced technology, alien organisms. Ironbloods, ‘made’ for war, which was hard to fathom after the unmasking. And there were the complaints and derision about the foreign environment.
That suddenly recalled something that had slipped his mind. Raetmus complaining about…
“You’re from another planet,” Deros said up into the strange, faux face. “One with a different gravity.” It was more an accusation, as he could hardly know. But Raetmus had claimed gravity had thrown his aim. Only another celestial body could have some significant difference, as he surmised from his old lessons. That or being so far away from any body that one was in the airless, lifeless void between, which none could be. Raetmus might’ve been making an excuse or simply lying, but that hardly mattered. It was enough of a difference for him to mention.
His captor and keeper just shook his head and laughed for a long spell. Deros looked away, staring out at the landscape ahead. At nothing. The implication was shocking. Insane. But somehow, he believed himself right, even with the uncertain evidence. Another world…
“Just wait and see, kampriço,” Semõìn finally said. “Sights you won’t believe. Magnificent ones! Maybe we’ll bring it here, too — Shapers transform your pont backwater to something better. One day. Ki Ordení shameant ki lunae!”
Deros didn’t ask what it meant, couldn’t say any more for the lump in his throat and the storm in his mind. People from another world. As once before? Their ancient ancestors?
The gods. Have the gods come for us? Have the gods returned? The thought annoyed him even as it came, as did his sheer awe at the prospect. Old superstitions and beliefs won the emotional round, however briefly, as he tried to banish them and keep his wits and logic about him. He had no room for awe — had to keep his hatred and rejection of them to the fore. Anger, to get Palamera away, to see the opportunities as they arose…
But then, such emotions had not been doing very well for him.
