Into a momentary silence from the semi-faux drama, Semõìn came over to tie Deros’s hands from the front, with a binding that seemed mostly composed of the contouring, strange, tendon-like material, forming a kind of clasp. It was sealed up entirely homogeneously and then the dark cording wrapped around over it like a second failsafe. Something told Deros it would not be easy to bypass. The fit was quite tight.
Just as this was finishing, the two that had ridden off to fetch the gear returned along with one other, escorting a clutch of the ‘rekasí’ beasts heavy-laden with packs and boxes composed primarily of the dark material the aliens seemed to prefer, though obvious wooden constructs were also in evidence. Deros was rather amazed by the sheer mass the suit-enhanced creatures could haul. It certainly put aloga and froul to shame.
Paetas and one of the new arrivals began speaking rapid-fire in their rolling, slurring tongue, which Deros could not make out much of aside from the curses he’d heard dozens of times since his capture. A few others, maybe. The rest he was certain was not a mere unknown dialect but a wholly different language.
Semõìn, who was bemusedly tossing a few words out himself to them — all of them chortling a bit from the conversation — seemed to notice something in Deros’s countenance and said, “Hey, don’t worry, kampriço, not everyone is from pontnokville like us Vânsers, so we all learned… well, the same pont you did! Still nok me amazing that you do. Anyway, we have to stick to the more universally-understood speech most of the time.”
“Right,” Deros said. “I am just as amazed that you speak our language.”
“Your language?” Semõìn snickered. “Stupid Prettyboy Tribal, back again. Okay, what do you call this language — your language? Let me guess: The Sand Tongue.”
“No… honestly I don’t think about it much, but it is basically considered the Southern language. But the books of the Observatorian we learn it from call it Alnaserian.”
“Never even heard of it. Kampriço, listen. That’s a pontin lie. What we are speaking now is old Ozrúsi. It’s as old as the dirt. I tell you, it shouldn’t even be surprising it’s here, le noka has been steaming off of us piles for aeons, the force-fed holy parta. Seriously, though? You’ve never heard of Ozrúsi? Ozrus?”
“No.” He did not ask for more, figuring it better to goad things out rather than demand it. He merely eyed his keeper-captor and waited.
But Semõìn only sighed and turned to bark a string of the unknown language over to Paetas, who turned sharply and threw her hands up at Semõìn in seeming exasperation, then placed her hands on her hips to stare, somehow in clear disapproval. Semõìn just laughed, but otherwise said nothing. Deros was unsure what to make of it, vexing as that was. A suggestion she wouldn’t approve of perhaps?
The group carrying the gear moved past and over the pier along with the rekasí, which certainly made the planks groan. They were sturdy enough for the task though, and held. As the little party arrived at the ship, the great lot of them all began cooperating to unload the packs and get it all aboard.
Deros and Palamera were left where they were, their keepers, as always, staying put close by, while the other — Taph — hovered around as well, an untrusting elder supervising young adults. That was how it seemed, anyway.
Three riders rode up from the camp, Deros only identifying Kerrick easily when he could make out the little red triangle he had on the left breast of his armor. The other two Ironbloods looked rather similar, though one was perhaps slightly smaller than the other two.
“So, who we got?” Taph called.
“Ennasone, vin!” barked a crisp, clear feminine voice. “You can call me Enna. A pleasure.”
Rounds of welcomes and introductions commenced between them, as none seemed to know the newcomer or vice versa.
Kerrick did not participate, instead gravitating toward Deros and Semõìn. As soon as he saw Deros he called, “Semõìn, what is this? This sack of parta with his hands bound from the front? I don’t think so. Tie them back around his back. I’d have him beaten for his insults, but he’s such skrófa he’d probably die on us, and that’s out of the nokieun cards now. I’ll be damned if he’s comfortable, though.”
“Zeko, zeki, Vaetor,” Semõìn grunted, then moved to comply. Deros didn’t bother responding or even looking at Kerrick, instead holding his hands out to get the deed over with.
“Ah, Vaetor?” Paetas ventured uncertainly. “Should I reverse bonds of Palamera, too?”
Kerrick snorted derisively. “Palamera? We’re on a named basis now with this trash?” He waved his hand disgustedly and turned his mount away.
Paetas hesitated in further uncertainty, half turning to her charge, but she must’ve internally decided against her idea, as she shook her head and stayed where she was, muttering unintelligibly to herself.
Kerrick meanwhile dismounted and started in the direction of the pier. “Our night-runners will be here shortly, so tell your rekasí to behave for them, get your essentials together, and get on the ship — agreós!”
The Ironbloods all barked their acknowledgment as their leader walked off.
“It’s nokzeû, this,” Semõìn said to Deros in nearly a whisper, as he did his trick of opening the bindings to remove them. “But orders are orders.”
“It’s alright,” Deros answered. “Still better than that damn cocoon, kam-pr-... actually, what does that mean? Kam-priço.”
“What? You don’t know?! Come on… it’s ancient, my boyo! Ah, it doesn’t mean much. Just… some guy. But not bad, really. Neutral, et? Friendly. It’s anybody. Not quite ti brother. Maybe ti distant cousin. Not going to hesitate putting a bullet in you if I have to, but I’ll at least apologize afterward, that kind of thing.”
“I see,” Deros said — though he didn’t — as his wrists were briefly freed. His keeper-captor soon turned him around to bind his hands anew from behind, having to move the cloak out of the way to do so.
Shows what they know. I can flip under these and have it in front in a heartbeat if I need to. He wouldn’t unless it would be useful for escaping, though. If he was caught just doing it for comfort, he’d lose the surprise element and probably end up even less comfortably bound. Not a winning strategy.
“There we go, all primed and ready for horrible suffering,” Semõìn said as the effort was completed, before he immediately made his way to his beastly mount, taking a backpack and a few other items from it as he gathered his ‘essentials.’ Momentarily he spoke some foreign, encouraging-sounding words to the beast, patting its neck and head and hugging it, to which it responded with whines and a thrashing tail Deros was glad to not be near.
The others didn’t seem as affectionate — or he simply missed their goodbyes, as most were already headed down the pier. All of the rekasí sat obediently in place, though all rekasí also were watching their masters and mistresses walk off with some measure of anxiety. It was clear they were sensitive enough to deduce that the separation was a significant one.
Deros was made to walk ahead down the pier, with Semõìn and the lingering Taph taking up the rear. Deros’s ‘tether’ was wrapped around Semõìn’s waist, ensuring he was anchored, no doubt to make him unable to take a mad dive into the river. He doubted any of the captured Taldecs would if they had faced the same, being reasonable sorts. Daexo or Ryza… well, it was impossible to imagine such heroic figures like them as captives. And he was fairly certain they were free and flying through the sands, to home.
The boat was a chaotic smorgasbord of activity, with multiple conversations going, gear being moved around and plentiful shouting and laughter resounding — exactly the sort of environment that made him unable to hear much for the irritating din and tended to leave him with headaches if in prolonged exposure. Deros and Semõìn dodged around the long line of rekasí and walked over the sturdy gangplank. His Ironblood keeper did not restrain himself from joining in the mass conversation, whatever it was. Deros just couldn’t bring himself to focus on it, in his fatigue and discomfort. It seemed doubtful any of it was worth much. Greetings, jests, and nonsense. He did realize suddenly that his hearing was still slightly off in one ear, though it was minor.
Supplies were stacked everywhere, with many packs tied and hanging off the railing to squeeze out more room for everyone. Palamera was already sitting down on the deck, kept out of the way of most traffic, with her tether anchored to a heavy iron ring probably used to keep sensitive supplies from moving around during travel. The boat had a tall roof at the back — talking there nearby were Kerrick, some Bluehand that was probably the captain, and another rather large Ironblood.
Semõìn eventually made his way in that direction, Deros forced to follow. Just as he did, Kerrick stepped up on top of a box and barked something loud, which caused everyone to stop, go quiet, and turn to him.
“If you’re going to keep pontin around,” Kerrick declared, “You had better make sure you’re otherwise ready to depart because that is imminent. I’m going to go touch base with the night-runners, and when I get back, we leave. Understood?” After a lackluster response, Kerrick repeated, “Understood?”
Deros winced from the resounding shout that answered from the boat’s denizens, of ‘Understood, Vaetor!’ Kerrick was satisfied with it and hopped down off the box to make his way off the ship, through a blessed relative silence.
Finding himself suddenly in close proximity to the Bluehand, Deros studied him. His face was entirely covered by headwraps and a scarf, leaving only a narrow, Azrom-scorched visor of skin, punctuated by reddish-gray eyes. His blue-and-white robes wrapping around him were of high-quality and weathered, but not old. He was likely of Lecto’s age range.
Briefly, their eyes met, but the Bluehand looked away instantly. Deros did not. He felt a bubble of annoyance and blurted, “I see you’re keeping your slave masters well and comfortable. Good job. Tell me there are hostages, Bluehand.”
“Do not offend the gods, Azakan,” the Bluehand replied nervously with a slightly lilting accent. He shook his head as his eyes flitted about in fear at the Ironbloods. “They do not allow us to speak to you.” Then his eyes cast over to someone else, lingering there.
Deros looked over to see the other Bluehand aboard, watching the rest with trepidation. From the bit of skin seen it was obvious that he was much younger. And he had reddish-gray eyes like a mirror of…
“Your son, then?” Deros asked, though he didn’t expect an answer. When he gazed back to the Bluehand captain, the presumable father had his eyes downcast. “Of course it is.”
He’d do anything to ensure his boy’s safety. Sell his very soul. How it always is and will be, for family. He’s forced into it, and there’s no way out that he can see.
The Ironblood that had been speaking with the captain and Kerrick walked up slowly and deliberately to Deros until he was almost touching, towering above. He had the honor of being the second-biggest humanoid Deros had ever seen, right behind Raetmus, and his width was surely the same despite being a bit shorter. He seemed to be just studying Deros, saying nothing. Deros tried to keep his face passive as he looked up. When he glanced at Semõìn, the latter was just watching with his arms crossed. Probably finding it amusing, as he did everything.
The big man said nothing to Deros, but finally turned to Semõìn and in an aged, grizzled, deep voice said, “This one thinks he’s clever, and maybe he is. Shrewd, even. Do keep an eye on him, soldier.”
“Zeko zeki, vin, I will. Two eyes. It’s Semõìn, by the way.”
“Mmn? Ah, right. Semõìn — the funnyman. We met at the gate.”
“Et! Still looking forward to that drink in Al Pendrós.”
"Me too, son," the big man sighed out elaborately, then gestured at the boat and maybe the landscape, seemingly indicating it as the exasperation keeping him from the drink. They both chuckled in a kind of nonverbal agreement.
“Pont, reminds me!” exclaimed an unknown Ironblood nearby, who must’ve overheard. “Semõìn, man, you didn't hear about Nelz out here, right?”
Semõìn turned his head to the speaker. “No... what in the hells did he do this time?”
“The nokhead noki drank one of their brews!"
“Nokieu! You're full of parta! You’re lying! No chance.”
“I'm not! Swear it on my scrip stack, kampriço. He was talking pont, dared someone to dare him, and they did. He got sick as nok in an hour, out of his head. Mates had to rat on him for what happened... they whisked him away like lightning, kampi. Every company had a big lecture about it. I hear the ozmáris was spitting nails for days.”
“Waymaker's sack! That pontnok idiot. Poisoning, right?”
“They say it was. Definitely too much alcohol. One nokieun drink, kampi.”
“Poison is poison, I say,” the big, old one interjected gruffly. “Tribals just nok around with random parta in their basement, roll the dice every time. Dumb ass noks. At least it was just poison, rather than some nightmare pathogen. That sort of headache is a whole other thing.”
They all nodded soberly to this, suddenly silent.
That is what is really your weakness, isn't it? Disease. You fear it. Fear exposure. It was something worth noting, though it wasn't clear how such a thing could be utilized while they were all safe inside their shells. That was something he hoped to see: ‘Ironbloods’ without their precious suits, test how ‘superior’ they remained without them.
“Well,” Semõìn said, “better get this sorry nok situated. One moment, ungentlemen...”
The bigger Ironblood nodded and moved out of the way, as Semõìn led Deros across the deck toward the front of the boat and over to one of the iron rings on the side, near the boat’s railing. He then began anchoring Deros’s lead to it.
Deros noticed they were practically all the way across the deck from Palamera, so he asked, “Any way I can be put over around her, instead?”
“Afraid the vaetor wouldn’t really allow it,” Semõìn answered with mildly apologetic tones, for a wonder. “Generally supposed to keep you tribals apart from one another. Prevents organized rebellions, I guess. But I know you would never try something, my kampriço.”
With equal sarcasm, Deros answered, “Never could it cross my mind, kam-priço. Even if I had a gun, I’d just throw it into the drink and sing of our friendship, instead.”
Chuckling as he finished with the cord, Semõìn lightly pat Deros’s head and said, “That’s my boy. Look, behave, alright? Have a seat. I know you can hardly do without me now, but I’ll be back after we set off. Then you can rest. And me, nok. Been a long day with all this pont.”
“I’ll freeze without another blanket, so you know.”
“You’ll get it, don’t worry, kampriço.” With that, he started away.
“Semõìn! One more thing,” Deros called, stalling the Ironblood. “The smell. It has died off quite a bit. It was intense back on the trail. It’s not coming directly from you lot. What in the hells was it?”
Semõìn sighed. “Nokieun Prettyboy Tribal, always pressing me for intel. It was deliberate, et. Scent-masker. Nasty parta, sprays around and lingers for days. A rekas is ti damn good tracker, so it’s, ah, standard procedure. We know you tribals sometimes have the means, so we stick to it. How about it? Did your tribe or was it a waste of time?”
“Not really,” Deros lied. “Mostly the scent just annoyed us. Especially the aloga.”
Semõìn sniffed and said, “Figures.” He walked off without further words, heading back into the vicinity of the gangplank.
Scent-masker. They have so many strange technologies. It was effective, though I wonder what exactly Aerion would’ve smelled, otherwise. It may not have changed anything, knowing the way we were looking at things…
Deros lowered himself to the deck, leaning back against the railing. When he gazed over at Palamera, he found her looking right back at him. Deros glanced once to make sure no one was watching, then mouthed slowly, ‘We. Will. Escape.’
She shook her head in response, mouthing ‘don’t,’ then something along with ‘stupid’... ‘don’t do anything stupid.’ To that, Deros gave a mild, supportive grin and a nod, with ‘I won’t.’ Palamera looked away, unclear in how convinced she was.
His teeth started chattering from the increasing cold, and even despite it — despite freezing and the aggravating discomfort of his bonds — he felt he could pass out in an instant from exhaustion. His eyelids drooped as he looked down at the deck. At nothing. But he fought from going under, knowing he’d need the blanket, doubting he’d be ‘tucked in’ if he passed out. It wasn’t worth chancing and losing ear tips or fingers to frostbite. The wind was not a kind combination with a night on the river, he understood.
Just as he lifted his head to shouts and sails being hoisted up for departure, Semõìn returned and tossed down onto him a massive, heavy blanket of dark material. Deros more or less wriggled himself entirely under it, craving the warmth like the sweetest fruit of summer, as Semõìn helped to get it wrapped around him adequately. Deros’s eyes opened and focused long enough to make sure Palamera was equally covered — which she was, huddling in a massive twin to Deros’s wonderful blackness, only her face visible as she was saying something to a nearby, sitting Paetas.
She is well, and I can sleep now, he assured himself as he muttered something-or-other to Semõìn’s no doubt pointless something-or-other. Then he ducked under the blanket so it entirely enshrouded him, head and all, as he lay on his side upon the hard wooden deck. He was aware somehow that the boat was moving, sailing, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
The only stupid thing I’ll be doing tonight is sleeping, my love. It was — along with regret for all the ‘clever’ contrivances of escape he wouldn’t accomplish — his final thought before he was wholly out of it.
His dreams were terrible, frenetic, and filled with death. Fire. Miracle Springs attacked, his mother and father and all the rest dying in hails of gunfire and more terrible things… demons of flame sweeping through and engulfing buildings, scouring crops. Cracking the walls of the Fortress, toppling the Observatory down to rubble. Laughing and taunting, asking ‘Where is Deros?’ But he was just a spectator — absent. And Eursett, then Palamera, ripped apart by rekasí as he fought and lost against giant, many-limbed humanoid insects. The Ironbloods of Cajhor. Holding him under a great foot as they tore apart the whole party he went with one-by-one, limb-from-limb, taunting further, ‘See what we do to our enemies, tiny Deros?’ It echoed through his mind and he screamed…
He awoke with a panicked jerk and a yelp, to a boot jostling him awake — immediately he sat up, causing the blanket to fall off of him and expose him to a blinding bright light he could not even open his eyes to. Sweating profusely, aching terribly, he was utterly disoriented within the waking world of almost warm, stark daylight. He almost tried to stand, as if to run from the… what?
“Oda, oda, easy — easy, kampriço! Nokieu.” Semõìn. A great towering blur above. “I can’t nokieun believe you slept this whole damn time! Slovenly ass quari.” He laughed, though. “Oda, look, I brought food. Time to eat, nokhead.”
Squinting, suffering through blinking and tears aggravated by sweat, all to get his eyes to adjust, Deros pulled the blanket off of him, panting…
Skrófa. His bonds were in front. He’d flipped them around without even remembering. Immediately, he tried to hide them back under the blanket, feeling rather dumb for the attempt…
Semõìn saw. “No-,” he started, but interrupted himself by leaning down and close, head turning to see if anyone was watching. He set a bowl down with a clunk and grabbed Deros’s hands, swiftly removing the bonds off to free them. Deros immediately rubbed his wrists and flexed his hands, the flesh if not the mind feeling a freedom that had been a long time coming. Then he winced, as he felt a throbbing crick in his neck come more to the fore. And his back hurt.
Why? Why did I sleep so long? Damn it. I’m a wastrel — a fool.
“You nok-for-brains, what is this bâvâ?” Semõìn demanded in a furious whisper. “Don’t do that pont again! You’ll end up tied up really nokzeú if you do, kampriço.”
“I didn’t…” Deros shook his head. “I won’t.”
“Mmph. Drink. Eat.” Semõìn passed him a waterskin and gestured to a bowl of food on the deck.
Deros drank deeply of the water in gulp after gulp, coughing intermittently. Gradually, he ceased to pant and his eyes adjusted to the light. Azrom wasn’t visible, but he was certain it was late morning by the sky’s light color. The boat was stopped. He glanced over at Palamera to see her watching anxiously. He waved, and she waved back, expression still worried. She was sitting and seemed otherwise well.
Finally, he glanced at the wooden bowl, with food within. Cuts of froul, it seemed, with thick yellow star peppers and shriveled-up mysterious greens. He took it up and ate ravenously despite it being entirely cold, utilizing the included wooden tongs instead of his dirty hands. He even dumped the last of the minimal liquid remainder at the bottom of the bowl into his mouth. It was both average and pure heaven.
Semõìn had risen and half watched silently with his arms crossed, half cast his eyes elsewhere. As Deros finished, Semõìn snickered and said, “Not much cajoling needed, et? Paetas said your girl took some effort to get eating right.”
Deros glanced over at ‘his girl’, though he said, “She’s not my girl, remember?” She needs to eat. There must be more travel ahead.
“Right.” The Ironblood ‘tsked.’ “Then I guess you don’t care that my suave friend got sweet on her, was talking her up and down earlier, even got her to laugh.”
“What?” Deros’s eyes rose up sharply to Semõìn’s helm. “Who? I thought you said-”
The burst of laughter, the leaning down as if doubling over, told him all he needed. He’s needling me. Deros said nothing, just tossed the tongs in the bowl and thrust it up to be taken, glaring daggers.
Eventually, Semõìn composed himself enough to take it, saying, “You are so transparent, kampriço! Look, you need to let it go. Focus on you. Quarin don’t get much of a say to begin with, and you sorry noks probably even less. Odds of you two staying together are nil, you know? You’ll go different directions, places. I don’t know how the Ordení decide pont, but those who act sensible, well, it has to count for something, et? Focus on you. She already rejected you anyway, boyo. So nok it.”
His eyes sliding away from his keeper, Deros muttered, “I’ll take it under advisement.” He didn’t really want to show any of his cards on the matter, to keep his options open for things to exploit. Ideally, they’d be manipulated into wanting to help him out regarding her. Showing doubt and uncertainty wasn’t a bad thing, though. It added depth to the illusion.
“Sure.” Semõìn gestured with his free hand. “Up, up. Let’s get your hands bound, et? The way they were when I found you, right?”
“Of course.” Deros pushed himself up, using the nearby ring and then the railing to help. He felt slightly dizzy as he pushed his hands behind him for Semõìn’s access. His eyes adjusted to the brighter light of Azrom’s full measure, and soon he realized they were docked at a pier of Many Sands, an awe-inspiring, wide river spilling almost every direction. The docks held activity and there were a clutch of buildings up on the higher ground, perhaps administrative. Nothing seemed burned down and Bluehands appeared to be conducting their business alongside plentiful numbers of the Ironbloods and lazing rekasí.
To Deros, it all seemed too quiet somehow — or spiritually subdued, perhaps. Sadly, he didn’t know if it was his imagination, as he had nothing to compare it to. Deros couldn’t see the rest of the city other than a hint of higher buildings beyond the strip of land — such as their stronghold, which also seemed untouched, though he couldn’t get the full measure of it. The rest was hidden from view beyond the docks. He knew the landscape was a big peninsula surrounded by the usually-swollen river as well as two lakes, one of which was more of a drainage aid.
The peninsula had high ground right down its middle like a ridge, a feature that never flooded and was perhaps why the community was located where it was. The dye-making and tanning industries were on the far side of the lake — mostly. But Many Sands was well-known for its smell, perhaps because of the extent and intensity of their unique dying process, potent despite the distance. Deros could just barely detect a hint of it. They were at the furthest possible distance from it all where they were, most likely.
Seeing it all was surreal. And a disappointment. He couldn’t see it — experience it — in the way he’d have wanted to, after all. It was occupied, conquered, a shadow of itself. So was he, until he and Palamera were freed.
“There’s Many Smells,” Semõìn called, as he finished fitting the clasp once more around Deros’s wrists. “Does it smell to you? Is your ponthole village just as stinky?”
“No,” Deros answered. “We have a… more sophisticated dying process, I suppose. It’s not pleasant, but only if you get close to the vats, far from the main community. Or hug a dyer. But we don’t manufacture the blue, we import it from here for different shades. We make the reddish-purple. We call it godberry.”
“Is that right?” He didn’t sound interested, and Deros could hardly blame him. Perhaps too much information, but it hardly seemed relevant enough to withhold. The terrified Bluehands would’ve already told them as much — if the Ironbloods even cared about such things.
Perhaps I can bore my captors to death. Deros Deathteller, the heroic escapee, a tale for the ages.
“So, how long are we staying here?” Deros queried.
“Not long. Oda, oda, we got news when we got here, actually. This whole damn Finger of the Shapers: this town, the camp upriver, the northern camp, all of it, packing up and packing out, kampriço. Consolidating downriver, down… the Taquat or whatever. Quick wave withdrawal, we call it.”
“Where? Why?”
Semõìn snickered. “Who wants to know, eh?” He suddenly put his hand on Deros’s head and ruffled up his hair. “Is it my Big Man Deros? Look at him when he makes demands, isn’t he cute?”
Deros clenched his jaw and breathed in a measured breath, before sighing his annoyance out. I’m keeping cool. I’m calm. But I will roast this dung-rat scum-ass bastard over a slow fire. One day.
Chuckling, Semõìn moved to lean down on the railing with an elbow, going out of his way to see Deros’s face. Laughing more, of course. “Hey, kampriço, no need for the murdery glare, you know! Nokieu, just joking around! Alright, fine… how about some good news? For you, anyway. Bad for the bosses. Just between you and me, I can tell you that your friends that got away? They stayed away. Didn’t get caught. I guess maybe they’ll blame this withdrawal, but nok me, Kerrick is cursing extra. Bet the Keirtum, too.”
I could’ve told you that, you ignorant lout. “It breaks my heart to hear, truly.” After a brief pause, Deros asked, “How did you soldiers even know we were coming without us seeing you? It has to be some other technology of yours, right? Why did it not work for you with those who escaped?”
Semõìn snorted derisively. “Incompetence of those hunting. But your spear-chucking friends wouldn’t have stood any chance with what we used before, no. The Shaped kiksa, kampriço. Our Ordinai sends it out, flying high, it sees everything, and when it comes back, she sees what it saw. You can’t hide pont from her.”
“The eagle,” Deros said faintly. We didn’t have a chance, because of that. Because of information. Seeing through the eyes of a flying animal…
“Close,” Semõìn replied with a shrug. “But no. Kiksa. Modified, altered. Shaped. Kampriço, the Shapers hold life in the palm of their hands. Your life, my life, all life. Snuff it out with a snap of their fingers. And make it whatever they want by dangling those fingers. You’ve seen it already. If you’re unlucky enough, you’ll even get to meet one. Fun, et?”
Swallowing with a throat that was suddenly dry for need of water, Deros finally croaked, “Just grand.”
Into a momentary silence from the semi-faux drama, Semõìn came over to tie Deros’s hands from the front, with a binding that seemed mostly composed of the contouring, strange, tendon-like material, forming a kind of clasp. It was sealed up entirely homogeneously and then the dark cording wrapped around over it like a second failsafe. Something told Deros it would not be easy to bypass. The fit was quite tight.
Just as this was finishing, the two that had ridden off to fetch the gear returned along with one other, escorting a clutch of the ‘rekasí’ beasts heavy-laden with packs and boxes composed primarily of the dark material the aliens seemed to prefer, though obvious wooden constructs were also in evidence. Deros was rather amazed by the sheer mass the suit-enhanced creatures could haul. It certainly put aloga and froul to shame.
Paetas and one of the new arrivals began speaking rapid-fire in their rolling, slurring tongue, which Deros could not make out much of aside from the curses he’d heard dozens of times since his capture. A few others, maybe. The rest he was certain was not a mere unknown dialect but a wholly different language.
Semõìn, who was bemusedly tossing a few words out himself to them — all of them chortling a bit from the conversation — seemed to notice something in Deros’s countenance and said, “Hey, don’t worry, kampriço, not everyone is from pontnokville like us Vânsers, so we all learned… well, the same pont you did! Still nok me amazing that you do. Anyway, we have to stick to the more universally-understood speech most of the time.”
“Right,” Deros said. “I am just as amazed that you speak our language.”
“Your language?” Semõìn snickered. “Stupid Prettyboy Tribal, back again. Okay, what do you call this language — your language? Let me guess: The Sand Tongue.”
“No… honestly I don’t think about it much, but it is basically considered the Southern language. But the books of the Observatorian we learn it from call it Alnaserian.”
“Never even heard of it. Kampriço, listen. That’s a pontin lie. What we are speaking now is old Ozrúsi. It’s as old as the dirt. I tell you, it shouldn’t even be surprising it’s here, le noka has been steaming off of us piles for aeons, the force-fed holy parta. Seriously, though? You’ve never heard of Ozrúsi? Ozrus?”
“No.” He did not ask for more, figuring it better to goad things out rather than demand it. He merely eyed his keeper-captor and waited.
But Semõìn only sighed and turned to bark a string of the unknown language over to Paetas, who turned sharply and threw her hands up at Semõìn in seeming exasperation, then placed her hands on her hips to stare, somehow in clear disapproval. Semõìn just laughed, but otherwise said nothing. Deros was unsure what to make of it, vexing as that was. A suggestion she wouldn’t approve of perhaps?
The group carrying the gear moved past and over the pier along with the rekasí, which certainly made the planks groan. They were sturdy enough for the task though, and held. As the little party arrived at the ship, the great lot of them all began cooperating to unload the packs and get it all aboard.
Deros and Palamera were left where they were, their keepers, as always, staying put close by, while the other — Taph — hovered around as well, an untrusting elder supervising young adults. That was how it seemed, anyway.
Three riders rode up from the camp, Deros only identifying Kerrick easily when he could make out the little red triangle he had on the left breast of his armor. The other two Ironbloods looked rather similar, though one was perhaps slightly smaller than the other two.
“So, who we got?” Taph called.
“Ennasone, vin!” barked a crisp, clear feminine voice. “You can call me Enna. A pleasure.”
Rounds of welcomes and introductions commenced between them, as none seemed to know the newcomer or vice versa.
Kerrick did not participate, instead gravitating toward Deros and Semõìn. As soon as he saw Deros he called, “Semõìn, what is this? This sack of parta with his hands bound from the front? I don’t think so. Tie them back around his back. I’d have him beaten for his insults, but he’s such skrófa he’d probably die on us, and that’s out of the nokieun cards now. I’ll be damned if he’s comfortable, though.”
“Zeko, zeki, Vaetor,” Semõìn grunted, then moved to comply. Deros didn’t bother responding or even looking at Kerrick, instead holding his hands out to get the deed over with.
“Ah, Vaetor?” Paetas ventured uncertainly. “Should I reverse bonds of Palamera, too?”
Kerrick snorted derisively. “Palamera? We’re on a named basis now with this trash?” He waved his hand disgustedly and turned his mount away.
Paetas hesitated in further uncertainty, half turning to her charge, but she must’ve internally decided against her idea, as she shook her head and stayed where she was, muttering unintelligibly to herself.
Kerrick meanwhile dismounted and started in the direction of the pier. “Our night-runners will be here shortly, so tell your rekasí to behave for them, get your essentials together, and get on the ship — agreós!”
The Ironbloods all barked their acknowledgment as their leader walked off.
“It’s nokzeû, this,” Semõìn said to Deros in nearly a whisper, as he did his trick of opening the bindings to remove them. “But orders are orders.”
“It’s alright,” Deros answered. “Still better than that damn cocoon, kam-pr-... actually, what does that mean? Kam-priço.”
“What? You don’t know?! Come on… it’s ancient, my boyo! Ah, it doesn’t mean much. Just… some guy. But not bad, really. Neutral, et? Friendly. It’s anybody. Not quite ti brother. Maybe ti distant cousin. Not going to hesitate putting a bullet in you if I have to, but I’ll at least apologize afterward, that kind of thing.”
“I see,” Deros said — though he didn’t — as his wrists were briefly freed. His keeper-captor soon turned him around to bind his hands anew from behind, having to move the cloak out of the way to do so.
Shows what they know. I can flip under these and have it in front in a heartbeat if I need to. He wouldn’t unless it would be useful for escaping, though. If he was caught just doing it for comfort, he’d lose the surprise element and probably end up even less comfortably bound. Not a winning strategy.
“There we go, all primed and ready for horrible suffering,” Semõìn said as the effort was completed, before he immediately made his way to his beastly mount, taking a backpack and a few other items from it as he gathered his ‘essentials.’ Momentarily he spoke some foreign, encouraging-sounding words to the beast, patting its neck and head and hugging it, to which it responded with whines and a thrashing tail Deros was glad to not be near.
The others didn’t seem as affectionate — or he simply missed their goodbyes, as most were already headed down the pier. All of the rekasí sat obediently in place, though all rekasí also were watching their masters and mistresses walk off with some measure of anxiety. It was clear they were sensitive enough to deduce that the separation was a significant one.
Deros was made to walk ahead down the pier, with Semõìn and the lingering Taph taking up the rear. Deros’s ‘tether’ was wrapped around Semõìn’s waist, ensuring he was anchored, no doubt to make him unable to take a mad dive into the river. He doubted any of the captured Taldecs would if they had faced the same, being reasonable sorts. Daexo or Ryza… well, it was impossible to imagine such heroic figures like them as captives. And he was fairly certain they were free and flying through the sands, to home.
The boat was a chaotic smorgasbord of activity, with multiple conversations going, gear being moved around and plentiful shouting and laughter resounding — exactly the sort of environment that made him unable to hear much for the irritating din and tended to leave him with headaches if in prolonged exposure. Deros and Semõìn dodged around the long line of rekasí and walked over the sturdy gangplank. His Ironblood keeper did not restrain himself from joining in the mass conversation, whatever it was. Deros just couldn’t bring himself to focus on it, in his fatigue and discomfort. It seemed doubtful any of it was worth much. Greetings, jests, and nonsense. He did realize suddenly that his hearing was still slightly off in one ear, though it was minor.
Supplies were stacked everywhere, with many packs tied and hanging off the railing to squeeze out more room for everyone. Palamera was already sitting down on the deck, kept out of the way of most traffic, with her tether anchored to a heavy iron ring probably used to keep sensitive supplies from moving around during travel. The boat had a tall roof at the back — talking there nearby were Kerrick, some Bluehand that was probably the captain, and another rather large Ironblood.
Semõìn eventually made his way in that direction, Deros forced to follow. Just as he did, Kerrick stepped up on top of a box and barked something loud, which caused everyone to stop, go quiet, and turn to him.
“If you’re going to keep pontin around,” Kerrick declared, “You had better make sure you’re otherwise ready to depart because that is imminent. I’m going to go touch base with the night-runners, and when I get back, we leave. Understood?” After a lackluster response, Kerrick repeated, “Understood?”
Deros winced from the resounding shout that answered from the boat’s denizens, of ‘Understood, Vaetor!’ Kerrick was satisfied with it and hopped down off the box to make his way off the ship, through a blessed relative silence.
Finding himself suddenly in close proximity to the Bluehand, Deros studied him. His face was entirely covered by headwraps and a scarf, leaving only a narrow, Azrom-scorched visor of skin, punctuated by reddish-gray eyes. His blue-and-white robes wrapping around him were of high-quality and weathered, but not old. He was likely of Lecto’s age range.
Briefly, their eyes met, but the Bluehand looked away instantly. Deros did not. He felt a bubble of annoyance and blurted, “I see you’re keeping your slave masters well and comfortable. Good job. Tell me there are hostages, Bluehand.”
“Do not offend the gods, Azakan,” the Bluehand replied nervously with a slightly lilting accent. He shook his head as his eyes flitted about in fear at the Ironbloods. “They do not allow us to speak to you.” Then his eyes cast over to someone else, lingering there.
Deros looked over to see the other Bluehand aboard, watching the rest with trepidation. From the bit of skin seen it was obvious that he was much younger. And he had reddish-gray eyes like a mirror of…
“Your son, then?” Deros asked, though he didn’t expect an answer. When he gazed back to the Bluehand captain, the presumable father had his eyes downcast. “Of course it is.”
He’d do anything to ensure his boy’s safety. Sell his very soul. How it always is and will be, for family. He’s forced into it, and there’s no way out that he can see.
The Ironblood that had been speaking with the captain and Kerrick walked up slowly and deliberately to Deros until he was almost touching, towering above. He had the honor of being the second-biggest humanoid Deros had ever seen, right behind Raetmus, and his width was surely the same despite being a bit shorter. He seemed to be just studying Deros, saying nothing. Deros tried to keep his face passive as he looked up. When he glanced at Semõìn, the latter was just watching with his arms crossed. Probably finding it amusing, as he did everything.
The big man said nothing to Deros, but finally turned to Semõìn and in an aged, grizzled, deep voice said, “This one thinks he’s clever, and maybe he is. Shrewd, even. Do keep an eye on him, soldier.”
“Zeko zeki, vin, I will. Two eyes. It’s Semõìn, by the way.”
“Mmn? Ah, right. Semõìn — the funnyman. We met at the gate.”
“Et! Still looking forward to that drink in Al Pendrós.”
"Me too, son," the big man sighed out elaborately, then gestured at the boat and maybe the landscape, seemingly indicating it as the exasperation keeping him from the drink. They both chuckled in a kind of nonverbal agreement.
“Pont, reminds me!” exclaimed an unknown Ironblood nearby, who must’ve overheard. “Semõìn, man, you didn't hear about Nelz out here, right?”
Semõìn turned his head to the speaker. “No... what in the hells did he do this time?”
“The nokhead noki drank one of their brews!"
“Nokieu! You're full of parta! You’re lying! No chance.”
“I'm not! Swear it on my scrip stack, kampriço. He was talking pont, dared someone to dare him, and they did. He got sick as nok in an hour, out of his head. Mates had to rat on him for what happened... they whisked him away like lightning, kampi. Every company had a big lecture about it. I hear the ozmáris was spitting nails for days.”
“Waymaker's sack! That pontnok idiot. Poisoning, right?”
“They say it was. Definitely too much alcohol. One nokieun drink, kampi.”
“Poison is poison, I say,” the big, old one interjected gruffly. “Tribals just nok around with random parta in their basement, roll the dice every time. Dumb ass noks. At least it was just poison, rather than some nightmare pathogen. That sort of headache is a whole other thing.”
They all nodded soberly to this, suddenly silent.
That is what is really your weakness, isn't it? Disease. You fear it. Fear exposure. It was something worth noting, though it wasn't clear how such a thing could be utilized while they were all safe inside their shells. That was something he hoped to see: ‘Ironbloods’ without their precious suits, test how ‘superior’ they remained without them.
“Well,” Semõìn said, “better get this sorry nok situated. One moment, ungentlemen...”
The bigger Ironblood nodded and moved out of the way, as Semõìn led Deros across the deck toward the front of the boat and over to one of the iron rings on the side, near the boat’s railing. He then began anchoring Deros’s lead to it.
Deros noticed they were practically all the way across the deck from Palamera, so he asked, “Any way I can be put over around her, instead?”
“Afraid the vaetor wouldn’t really allow it,” Semõìn answered with mildly apologetic tones, for a wonder. “Generally supposed to keep you tribals apart from one another. Prevents organized rebellions, I guess. But I know you would never try something, my kampriço.”
With equal sarcasm, Deros answered, “Never could it cross my mind, kam-priço. Even if I had a gun, I’d just throw it into the drink and sing of our friendship, instead.”
Chuckling as he finished with the cord, Semõìn lightly pat Deros’s head and said, “That’s my boy. Look, behave, alright? Have a seat. I know you can hardly do without me now, but I’ll be back after we set off. Then you can rest. And me, nok. Been a long day with all this pont.”
“I’ll freeze without another blanket, so you know.”
“You’ll get it, don’t worry, kampriço.” With that, he started away.
“Semõìn! One more thing,” Deros called, stalling the Ironblood. “The smell. It has died off quite a bit. It was intense back on the trail. It’s not coming directly from you lot. What in the hells was it?”
Semõìn sighed. “Nokieun Prettyboy Tribal, always pressing me for intel. It was deliberate, et. Scent-masker. Nasty parta, sprays around and lingers for days. A rekas is ti damn good tracker, so it’s, ah, standard procedure. We know you tribals sometimes have the means, so we stick to it. How about it? Did your tribe or was it a waste of time?”
“Not really,” Deros lied. “Mostly the scent just annoyed us. Especially the aloga.”
Semõìn sniffed and said, “Figures.” He walked off without further words, heading back into the vicinity of the gangplank.
Scent-masker. They have so many strange technologies. It was effective, though I wonder what exactly Aerion would’ve smelled, otherwise. It may not have changed anything, knowing the way we were looking at things…
Deros lowered himself to the deck, leaning back against the railing. When he gazed over at Palamera, he found her looking right back at him. Deros glanced once to make sure no one was watching, then mouthed slowly, ‘We. Will. Escape.’
She shook her head in response, mouthing ‘don’t,’ then something along with ‘stupid’... ‘don’t do anything stupid.’ To that, Deros gave a mild, supportive grin and a nod, with ‘I won’t.’ Palamera looked away, unclear in how convinced she was.
His teeth started chattering from the increasing cold, and even despite it — despite freezing and the aggravating discomfort of his bonds — he felt he could pass out in an instant from exhaustion. His eyelids drooped as he looked down at the deck. At nothing. But he fought from going under, knowing he’d need the blanket, doubting he’d be ‘tucked in’ if he passed out. It wasn’t worth chancing and losing ear tips or fingers to frostbite. The wind was not a kind combination with a night on the river, he understood.
Just as he lifted his head to shouts and sails being hoisted up for departure, Semõìn returned and tossed down onto him a massive, heavy blanket of dark material. Deros more or less wriggled himself entirely under it, craving the warmth like the sweetest fruit of summer, as Semõìn helped to get it wrapped around him adequately. Deros’s eyes opened and focused long enough to make sure Palamera was equally covered — which she was, huddling in a massive twin to Deros’s wonderful blackness, only her face visible as she was saying something to a nearby, sitting Paetas.
She is well, and I can sleep now, he assured himself as he muttered something-or-other to Semõìn’s no doubt pointless something-or-other. Then he ducked under the blanket so it entirely enshrouded him, head and all, as he lay on his side upon the hard wooden deck. He was aware somehow that the boat was moving, sailing, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
The only stupid thing I’ll be doing tonight is sleeping, my love. It was — along with regret for all the ‘clever’ contrivances of escape he wouldn’t accomplish — his final thought before he was wholly out of it.
His dreams were terrible, frenetic, and filled with death. Fire. Miracle Springs attacked, his mother and father and all the rest dying in hails of gunfire and more terrible things… demons of flame sweeping through and engulfing buildings, scouring crops. Cracking the walls of the Fortress, toppling the Observatory down to rubble. Laughing and taunting, asking ‘Where is Deros?’ But he was just a spectator — absent. And Eursett, then Palamera, ripped apart by rekasí as he fought and lost against giant, many-limbed humanoid insects. The Ironbloods of Cajhor. Holding him under a great foot as they tore apart the whole party he went with one-by-one, limb-from-limb, taunting further, ‘See what we do to our enemies, tiny Deros?’ It echoed through his mind and he screamed…
He awoke with a panicked jerk and a yelp, to a boot jostling him awake — immediately he sat up, causing the blanket to fall off of him and expose him to a blinding bright light he could not even open his eyes to. Sweating profusely, aching terribly, he was utterly disoriented within the waking world of almost warm, stark daylight. He almost tried to stand, as if to run from the… what?
“Oda, oda, easy — easy, kampriço! Nokieu.” Semõìn. A great towering blur above. “I can’t nokieun believe you slept this whole damn time! Slovenly ass quari.” He laughed, though. “Oda, look, I brought food. Time to eat, nokhead.”
Squinting, suffering through blinking and tears aggravated by sweat, all to get his eyes to adjust, Deros pulled the blanket off of him, panting…
Skrófa. His bonds were in front. He’d flipped them around without even remembering. Immediately, he tried to hide them back under the blanket, feeling rather dumb for the attempt…
Semõìn saw. “No-,” he started, but interrupted himself by leaning down and close, head turning to see if anyone was watching. He set a bowl down with a clunk and grabbed Deros’s hands, swiftly removing the bonds off to free them. Deros immediately rubbed his wrists and flexed his hands, the flesh if not the mind feeling a freedom that had been a long time coming. Then he winced, as he felt a throbbing crick in his neck come more to the fore. And his back hurt.
Why? Why did I sleep so long? Damn it. I’m a wastrel — a fool.
“You nok-for-brains, what is this bâvâ?” Semõìn demanded in a furious whisper. “Don’t do that pont again! You’ll end up tied up really nokzeú if you do, kampriço.”
“I didn’t…” Deros shook his head. “I won’t.”
“Mmph. Drink. Eat.” Semõìn passed him a waterskin and gestured to a bowl of food on the deck.
Deros drank deeply of the water in gulp after gulp, coughing intermittently. Gradually, he ceased to pant and his eyes adjusted to the light. Azrom wasn’t visible, but he was certain it was late morning by the sky’s light color. The boat was stopped. He glanced over at Palamera to see her watching anxiously. He waved, and she waved back, expression still worried. She was sitting and seemed otherwise well.
Finally, he glanced at the wooden bowl, with food within. Cuts of froul, it seemed, with thick yellow star peppers and shriveled-up mysterious greens. He took it up and ate ravenously despite it being entirely cold, utilizing the included wooden tongs instead of his dirty hands. He even dumped the last of the minimal liquid remainder at the bottom of the bowl into his mouth. It was both average and pure heaven.
Semõìn had risen and half watched silently with his arms crossed, half cast his eyes elsewhere. As Deros finished, Semõìn snickered and said, “Not much cajoling needed, et? Paetas said your girl took some effort to get eating right.”
Deros glanced over at ‘his girl’, though he said, “She’s not my girl, remember?” She needs to eat. There must be more travel ahead.
“Right.” The Ironblood ‘tsked.’ “Then I guess you don’t care that my suave friend got sweet on her, was talking her up and down earlier, even got her to laugh.”
“What?” Deros’s eyes rose up sharply to Semõìn’s helm. “Who? I thought you said-”
The burst of laughter, the leaning down as if doubling over, told him all he needed. He’s needling me. Deros said nothing, just tossed the tongs in the bowl and thrust it up to be taken, glaring daggers.
Eventually, Semõìn composed himself enough to take it, saying, “You are so transparent, kampriço! Look, you need to let it go. Focus on you. Quarin don’t get much of a say to begin with, and you sorry noks probably even less. Odds of you two staying together are nil, you know? You’ll go different directions, places. I don’t know how the Ordení decide pont, but those who act sensible, well, it has to count for something, et? Focus on you. She already rejected you anyway, boyo. So nok it.”
His eyes sliding away from his keeper, Deros muttered, “I’ll take it under advisement.” He didn’t really want to show any of his cards on the matter, to keep his options open for things to exploit. Ideally, they’d be manipulated into wanting to help him out regarding her. Showing doubt and uncertainty wasn’t a bad thing, though. It added depth to the illusion.
“Sure.” Semõìn gestured with his free hand. “Up, up. Let’s get your hands bound, et? The way they were when I found you, right?”
“Of course.” Deros pushed himself up, using the nearby ring and then the railing to help. He felt slightly dizzy as he pushed his hands behind him for Semõìn’s access. His eyes adjusted to the brighter light of Azrom’s full measure, and soon he realized they were docked at a pier of Many Sands, an awe-inspiring, wide river spilling almost every direction. The docks held activity and there were a clutch of buildings up on the higher ground, perhaps administrative. Nothing seemed burned down and Bluehands appeared to be conducting their business alongside plentiful numbers of the Ironbloods and lazing rekasí.
To Deros, it all seemed too quiet somehow — or spiritually subdued, perhaps. Sadly, he didn’t know if it was his imagination, as he had nothing to compare it to. Deros couldn’t see the rest of the city other than a hint of higher buildings beyond the strip of land — such as their stronghold, which also seemed untouched, though he couldn’t get the full measure of it. The rest was hidden from view beyond the docks. He knew the landscape was a big peninsula surrounded by the usually-swollen river as well as two lakes, one of which was more of a drainage aid.
The peninsula had high ground right down its middle like a ridge, a feature that never flooded and was perhaps why the community was located where it was. The dye-making and tanning industries were on the far side of the lake — mostly. But Many Sands was well-known for its smell, perhaps because of the extent and intensity of their unique dying process, potent despite the distance. Deros could just barely detect a hint of it. They were at the furthest possible distance from it all where they were, most likely.
Seeing it all was surreal. And a disappointment. He couldn’t see it — experience it — in the way he’d have wanted to, after all. It was occupied, conquered, a shadow of itself. So was he, until he and Palamera were freed.
“There’s Many Smells,” Semõìn called, as he finished fitting the clasp once more around Deros’s wrists. “Does it smell to you? Is your ponthole village just as stinky?”
“No,” Deros answered. “We have a… more sophisticated dying process, I suppose. It’s not pleasant, but only if you get close to the vats, far from the main community. Or hug a dyer. But we don’t manufacture the blue, we import it from here for different shades. We make the reddish-purple. We call it godberry.”
“Is that right?” He didn’t sound interested, and Deros could hardly blame him. Perhaps too much information, but it hardly seemed relevant enough to withhold. The terrified Bluehands would’ve already told them as much — if the Ironbloods even cared about such things.
Perhaps I can bore my captors to death. Deros Deathteller, the heroic escapee, a tale for the ages.
“So, how long are we staying here?” Deros queried.
“Not long. Oda, oda, we got news when we got here, actually. This whole damn Finger of the Shapers: this town, the camp upriver, the northern camp, all of it, packing up and packing out, kampriço. Consolidating downriver, down… the Taquat or whatever. Quick wave withdrawal, we call it.”
“Where? Why?”
Semõìn snickered. “Who wants to know, eh?” He suddenly put his hand on Deros’s head and ruffled up his hair. “Is it my Big Man Deros? Look at him when he makes demands, isn’t he cute?”
Deros clenched his jaw and breathed in a measured breath, before sighing his annoyance out. I’m keeping cool. I’m calm. But I will roast this dung-rat scum-ass bastard over a slow fire. One day.
Chuckling, Semõìn moved to lean down on the railing with an elbow, going out of his way to see Deros’s face. Laughing more, of course. “Hey, kampriço, no need for the murdery glare, you know! Nokieu, just joking around! Alright, fine… how about some good news? For you, anyway. Bad for the bosses. Just between you and me, I can tell you that your friends that got away? They stayed away. Didn’t get caught. I guess maybe they’ll blame this withdrawal, but nok me, Kerrick is cursing extra. Bet the Keirtum, too.”
I could’ve told you that, you ignorant lout. “It breaks my heart to hear, truly.” After a brief pause, Deros asked, “How did you soldiers even know we were coming without us seeing you? It has to be some other technology of yours, right? Why did it not work for you with those who escaped?”
Semõìn snorted derisively. “Incompetence of those hunting. But your spear-chucking friends wouldn’t have stood any chance with what we used before, no. The Shaped kiksa, kampriço. Our Ordinai sends it out, flying high, it sees everything, and when it comes back, she sees what it saw. You can’t hide pont from her.”
“The eagle,” Deros said faintly. We didn’t have a chance, because of that. Because of information. Seeing through the eyes of a flying animal…
“Close,” Semõìn replied with a shrug. “But no. Kiksa. Modified, altered. Shaped. Kampriço, the Shapers hold life in the palm of their hands. Your life, my life, all life. Snuff it out with a snap of their fingers. And make it whatever they want by dangling those fingers. You’ve seen it already. If you’re unlucky enough, you’ll even get to meet one. Fun, et?”
Swallowing with a throat that was suddenly dry for need of water, Deros finally croaked, “Just grand.”
