Back at the habitat tent, sleep was out of the cards for Deros for hours of tossing and turning and the random stew of anxieties in his mind. The separation from Palamera was the worst — not seeing, not knowing with clear evidence that she was okay. It was at least a blessing that neither she nor any of their Ironblood ‘friends’ knew he had gone to see anyone. He feared Palamera would somehow determine and suss out exactly what was wrong even without a sudden demanded meeting in the middle of the night. He was certain that jealousy would snap into her mind instantly if she heard about such a thing, thanks to Eklásia’s beauty and demeanor toward him.
I called her a goddess. I was in awe of her — so was Palamera, but the two things will be entirely different in her mind, won’t they? She doesn’t have to forgive me, though. I don’t need it or deserve it for the things I’ve considered…
He really did not want to think about his stomach-turning contingency deal with Eklásia. ‘Nothing worth considering,’ and so he’d tossed that figurine away, but it hadn’t left his mind. It was lodged there, needing endless dissection. The core of it was poison. Her promise of him and Palamera living happily ever after together like a faux marriage in her palace was a laughable absurdity. The woman wanted him and she’d ensure some way or somehow to drive her two entrapped quarin apart. It wouldn’t be hard. Palamera would never tolerate the situation.
I could free her of my burden — I could ensure she was safe and free to… I could do whatever I needed to-... no. No, I can’t. I can’t let her go, or be with anyone else. We have to escape!
Clenching his bound fists, he slapped them against the bed and rolled over. Things he could not think about; things he could not stop thinking about, taunting him, torturing him. Turning, turning, turning, making him want to scream, to run, to try that ‘impossible’ post in the ground after all. A tightness in his chest that demanded, that pulled him to do something, anything! But with an act of will, he resisted, because it was hopeless. Pushed it down and buried it. Nothing external. Calm. Sedation. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. That’s all he was: breath.
Breath and some meager tears of panic and despair. Nothing serious. Just digging my fingers into the walls of my pit! Dragging the earth down! I’ll bloody my hands piling it under my feet and stomp it down! I’ll make a tower of dirt filling the hole out! Out!
No. Calmness. He could not let it drive him to insanity. Opportunities would arise. Peace. He still had time.
Blessedly, he somehow found a bit of sleep in his forced peace, enough to reset some of his anxiety. Numb the pain. But hours still ticked by after he awoke. All he could do was lay there — or sit — and wait.
By the glow of daylight emanating through the tent walls and ceiling, he saw that the day had arrived at some point. He was brought food — baked eel, curlroot, and greens in a bowl, eaten with tongs. They didn’t bother unbinding his hands though it didn’t trouble him much. He tried to ask them where Semõìn was when he was being transported, but all he got was the customary ‘quiet, tribal’ that they so adored, spoken like reflex. They at least left him his own waterskin.
The day dragged on in frustration. He saw the friendly Sylmex Azakan across the beds again and waved. There was little else he could do — it was not as if they could talk.
He saw trickles of others brought in, but they were never positioned very close to him. One was across beds to the other side and only a few down, but the woman never even looked up from the floor. Deros thought she was a Sylmex citizen, though her attire was dirty and generic. Another Sylmex Azakan was brought in, unconscious but strangely uninjured, and when he awoke an hour later, he began screaming and pulling at his bindings, shouting obscenities. The guards came and gagged him, even tied him short up to the post, but he still made noise and trouble. Finally, guards came and took him away. He did not return.
Poor fool. Not so far from what I feel inside, what I’m beating down with a brain hammer. I hope he’s not been executed…
When Deros needed to visit the latrines, he found the system dishearteningly well-organized and secure, with plentiful guards and him kept tethered and watched at every point. It was sanitary and well-engineered, at least… They utilized a long irrigation line from the river with it following alongside until dumped back in further down the current, away from the areas that would be drinking water. A tremendous amount of work — or it would’ve been for Hamaleen. For the Ironbloods, with their suits and powerful rekasí, it might’ve been easy.
The daylight continued dying, with nothing changing. Ordinarily, the isolation they’d forced on him would be nothing much to Deros, but Palamera’s situation worried him. As he found his strength returning, and with it less strain on his brain and body, Deros decided to gather information through eavesdropping on the soldiers with the enhanced hearing of his makar’osa. On whoever and whatever he could, with the best things coming from random passersby outside that he happened to catch in range.
Much of it was useless — soldiers bantering here and there or talking about irrelevant things. There was talk about a ‘front’ on ‘the capital’ or ‘the Sylmex city,’ which he gathered was referring to Sylapoor Mexis, one of the largest and most famous cities in the world, residing far down the Talqua. ‘The Shaper with them will make it noki quick, kampi!’ ‘They’ve caused enough casualties, alright.’ ‘Guess we’re out of here, after. Fine by me.’ ‘Volcano, here we come…’
Volcano? The Spitting Titan? No, it’s too far… another one, perhaps. Esteron mentioned two, but one was far south, the other unclear. What would a volcano have to do with anything? Interesting.
Other things of questionable use. ‘... puked again, the sorry pontsekú.’ ‘Skrófa! That el le mei'pont! Everyone went through the same acclimatization tests. Did he cheat his way here?’ ‘Doubt it, even with him. Can you imagine puking inside the crown, though? Nokieu.’ ‘That’s straight parta, et. Oda, he cheated somehow, kampi. Serves him right.’
‘Oda, you seen the new sixty-one tee?’ ‘Et, someone was telling me about it, kampriço — about time they upgraded it…’
‘... just another worthless Vânser. Like a plague out here, chasing scrip.’ ‘Aren’t we all.’ ‘Et, but they are why there’s all these nok ups. Gloryhounds and hot-headed ponts. So, what, you’re a sympathizer?’ ‘No, look, I’m just saying, we…’
He heard nothing about Palamera, try as he might. He ultimately relented in his efforts once he felt the fatigue coming on, before he began to feel any strain. The less he overdid it, the more he’d heal for the next day. And it was tiring on just a natural level, sifting through their banal nonsense for what scant nuggets existed. Volcano. Hopefully, it wasn’t some codename…
He certainly got plenty of rest, for all the idleness. Sometimes all he could do was try and nap. Occasionally, he succeeded. So the day went.
Sleep at night was surprisingly good — the Ironbloods enforced quiet especially then. He couldn’t fault them for the order they religiously kept. Most of them, at least. The less-accented ones — perhaps ‘non-Vânsers’ though he probably didn’t know all the intricacies — were especially rigid and stoic in how they did things, sticking to the letter of their apparent rules. His typical nightmares left him alone or graced him with the privilege of fleeing from memory upon awakening.
The morning was much the same as before: food and laying around. He could stomach only so much eavesdropping before he gave up and passed it off until later, disgusted. The most interesting thing was someone listing off the ‘famous inns and dives of Cerovuâ’ she planned to visit with her bonus scrip: ‘The Cave of Spirits in Ot Safral,’ ‘The Nectar Emporium,’ ‘The Pelenõìr Inn of Ban Goteós.’ Her compatriot laughed and called her a nokhead for wanting to ‘piss her bonus away.’
Every so often, pangs of anxiety wracked him, worrying about his love. He endured them because there was nothing else he could do. Aside from going into breathing exercises of continually waning success.
Please let her be alright. Please let me see her face again. Please. What he prayed to, he couldn’t say. Not the gods. Not ever again. But he'd said that before...
In the relative middle of the day, he was suddenly aware of a figure even more massive than the typical Ironblood walking down the path between the beds, led from the entrance by one of the guards. Immediately, alarm flared up in Deros and he shot up on his feet, the bonds tied to the anchor stretched taut.
Raetmus.
“Guards!” Deros shouted, looking around for help. “Guards, that man” — he pointed at the approaching figures as best he could — “means to kill me! Do you want blood on your hands?!”
An Ironblood guard still making his circuit turned around to take quickened steps back to Deros, calling angrily, “Quiet, tribal! What the nok are you on about?”
“That Vânser” — he guessed wildly — “cares nothing for rules and hates me! He swore he’d see me dead on the corpse of a loved one. One I had nothing to do with! He’s mad!”
“Even tribals know about Vânsers? Skrófa, they’re worse than I thought. Anyway, stop crying, boy. He’s escorted. It’d be his hide to pull something here with witnesses — no one’s that stupid. You’re safe as an egg up a fat bird’s bum. Wahz… look at him… there’s a Vânser that big? I thought only…”
Shaking his head as the guard trailed off, Deros looked around for other Ironbloods, but the ones at the far end had not done much more than shift around, waiting and watching. They did that, at least. The patroller didn’t continue his circuit either, staying put nearby, marveling at the giant. Deros considered screaming bloody murder like the other captive had the day before, just to make them converge on him, but he discarded the thought. Raetmus might join in ‘restraining’ him and ‘accidentally’ snap his neck, after all.
Summoning daug’makar to keep his senses tuned, Deros moved between the bed and the post, where he had the most of the meager slack that the cord allowed while standing.
Raetmus sauntered down the space like he was a king being escorted, like he owned the whole facility and everyone in it, looking down on far inferior creatures, Hamaleen and Ironblood alike. His authority was nothing official, as he had no cape or even a painted triangle like a vaetor. His was an entirely self-made sense of superiority, perhaps born of the physical reality of his sheer, monstrous size. Something he seemed to leverage without restraint.
The guard stopped right at Deros’s bed, then turned to Raetmus, gesturing with a hand wordlessly, looking bored or perhaps impatient with the matter.
The giant took a few steps Deros’s way — steps heavy enough Deros could feel them through the farsense — as if inspecting, putting his hands on his hips. The escort next to him was head and neck shorter. “Ah, there he is,” Raetmus boomed, “Scheming and plotting under your ignorant noses. Can’t you imperials sniff out an agent of discord among you?”
“What are you-” Deros began.
“What is he talking about, Mesón?” the patroller asked the other guard. “And I’ll be damned if I’m called an imperial! I piss on Montacúr!”
‘Mesón’ sighed. “I don’t even know, but he better prove it, then get out of our noki horns with it. Well, Raetmus?”
Slapping his hands together loudly, enough to make everyone twitch, Raetmus exclaimed, “Ah ha! I can see it from here, you blind pigrats. Around his neck. Incompetents! Allow me…”
As soon as the giant moved in, Deros cried out and dodged, but the reach of a giant nearly three meters tall was completely insurmountable. He grabbed Deros’s cord and jerked him forward, inevitably grabbing his bindings directly and pulling him close, bed flipping over from the altercation.
“He’s going to kill me!” Deros shouted, knowing his only salvation was interference from the guards. Fighting would be futile and dangerous with someone who could crush the life out of him with one clenched fist. All he could do was stare his killer in the face with his blood pumping full of adrenaline, wait for the final move or twitch, maybe dodge or glance the blow, buy a second, buy two…
Deros was aware of contentious shouting from multiple directions, and the patroller elucidating some threat of consequence for ‘hurting the tribal.’ Small consolation.
One great pointed finger darted at Deros’s neck, but down underneath his tunic instead of as an attack. It looped under Deros’s necklace and pulled it up, holding it up slightly as though demonstrating. He paused like that — great frightful head poised close to Deros — then called out, “You see? A necklace hidden, and you fools think it nothing. But these pontin tribals have more tricks than you know. Don’t you wonder where they find their strength and energy?”
The shouts died down when it became more clear Raetmus wasn’t going to execute Deros out of hand.
“My necklace is literally noth-” Deros began.
Raetmus shook him slightly, pulled him in subtly, then through obviously clenched teeth, whispered low, “I will kill you, tribal. Sweat your worry every day, every hour, for you won’t know when, but come it will. For you and all the rest. With your spear. Doubt that as you doubt my oath.”
With that, Raetmus curled his thumb under the necklace, where something sharp cut the thong of leather free as he thrust it upward. He took the necklace with one hand and shoved Deros down to the floor with the other, stepping free. Raetmus then appeared to crush a ceramic bead under a thumb and forefinger with a crack, and tiny shards and dust were in his hand — along with some powder Deros knew could not be a product of the bead at all. It was an added trick by sleight of hand, somehow.
“Drugs,” Raetmus declared in triumphant accusation, letting the powder fall from his hand. He snorted in derision. “In little receptacles like this, hidden by your stupidity. The incompetence of imperials makes me sick. But those with culture enough to know better are here to wipe away the fog born of your corrupted, staid genealogies, fear not.”
Deros, panting from the floor, cast his eyes for evidence of the half-spear on Raetmus’s person, but he didn’t see it. He failed to see any other weapons, either. The spear had been cracked in two and the better half taken by Kerrick… it made no sense why the vaetor would give it to Raetmus, though. His death would reflect on Kerrick, surely, even if he despised Deros.
The two Ironbloods that had been at the back of the habitat approached, one of them jerking their head at Raetmus and saying, “Get that el le mei’pont out of here! He’s banned permanently!”
“He said they have drugs in their necklaces, that-”
“Et, we’ll take it under nokieun advisement. Now escort his ass out!”
“Rest easy, tribal,” Raetmus growled at Deros, then turned on his heels to march away, for all the world like he was deciding to do it himself. The guard that had brought him — Mesón — rushed from behind to keep up, pretending he was indeed escorting the giant.
The other two guards muttered to each other balefully as they eventually departed back to their post. Meanwhile, the patroller walked over to straighten out Deros’s bed. Thankfully, the bucket nearby had not been spilled over. Perhaps a small miracle.
“Oda, primitive,” the patroller ventured after he was done, “what does the drug do, anyway?”
“Aids in our sex rituals, mainly,” Deros said in a breathless lie, perhaps a bit hysterical. He felt a great loss for the necklace, composed of so many little memories. But it was gone and he’d never see it again. At least he had his token.
The patroller cackled. “Sex rituals? Nokieu. What kind of s-... I guess I don’t want to know, actually.” After pausing, he almost walked off, but said, “If you called that freak a Vânser to his face, he definitely would’ve killed you, tribal. He’s from Corzakus, not Vânsȩ. They hate each other. Corzakûssians hate everyone, though.”
“Why?”
With a shrug, the patroller said, “Just how they are. Pride, I guess. They were never part of the old Montacúrian Empire. Resisted them in the days of expansion. They’re more like reluctant allies to Cerovuâ. But I better get back to work. No more noise from you, zeko?”
Deros made some semblance of a nod, barely listening. Things are getting worse and worse. I don’t have the contingency option at all if he is to be believed. Maybe he’s bluffing, knowing he can’t touch me. He could’ve killed me right here and now, but he restrained himself. Cold, calculating hate, now. Damn it! I should’ve mentioned him to Eklásia. She had me too off-balance… just as she intended. New threats drown out the old ones, but they never die, do they?
He racked his mind for what to do. Escape was the only real thing. He could be thankful the Ironbloods didn’t seem concerned about searching him, even after Raetmus’s ‘find’. Raetmus didn’t exactly engender cooperation with his endless insults. Deros hadn’t seen many still with their necklaces, though it was customary to hide them. Most soldiers probably took such things before one even got to the habitats, considering many had precious gems and metals on them. Semõìn hadn’t taken his, likely because he was always too busy running his mouth to think about it.
Could he get word to Eklásia? No. She was down the river, dealing with the Sylmex capital. He couldn’t talk to anyone about her anyway, not until the contact she mentioned approached him. Perhaps it was unlikely in the habitat, being too obvious. He wasn’t sure. He needed to talk to them, though — whoever they were — and fast.
Sadly, the day was anything but fast, despite its momentary excitement and stress. Deros brooded on his and his party’s fate while in a relative calm. He could barely focus on his eavesdropping and found the base conversations unpalatable. The two guards at the back were talking endlessly about the intricacies of a card game. A card game. Deros gave up on the matter entirely, opting to conserve his strength.
When dinner came, he made himself eat, despite that it tasted like dust and the dark cloud in his head had little room for appetite. As a survivalist, he knew better than to turn down energy. Whatever he did, whatever he tried in the future to escape slavery or death for Palamera and himself, he’d need it.
He didn’t nap at all that day and his mental exhaustion perhaps aided him in falling asleep quick and hard...
They were with Eklásia in her resplendent palace, where he and Palamera were made to be servants. He tried again and again to escape but to no avail, as his mistress always caught him up in her tendrils while laughing about it like it was a game. Palamera grew to hate him for his failures — failing to get them away but also in convincing their mistress that her advances on him were unwanted. They were! He swore up and down, he tried everything he could, but she was relentless! Palamera wouldn’t hear it. She met another visiting Shaper who fancied her, and a deal was made — she went away with him... a smiling, suave, cocky demigod with so much more to offer her than Deros. He was left alone, with nothing but a certainty that his will would be worn down and he’d succumb to the vile, yet tantalizing pleasures of-
His eyes flashed open, the dream kept balefully lodged in his mind like truth itself. He pulled the cloak and blanket off quickly, making sure he was still in the tent. That the vision wasn’t reality.
The habitat greeted him — the only time he was relieved to see it. But the dream still tore at him heart and soul, taunting him as if it were prophetic. No. No! It won’t be us. I’ll sooner let Raetmus kill me! Sooner turn the world to ash. I won’t lose her, I won’t fail. I won’t lose the will against anyone or anything!
Calming down from a near-pant in the faintest filter of early morning, Deros sat up in the bed to greet the cold air and try to banish the feelings left from his vile, hideous imaginations. Not long after this ineffectual meditation, he became aware of a guard approaching his bed, a steaming bowl with a spoon in his hands. Far too early.
“Eat up,” the guard whispered as he leaned down to proffer the bowl of stew, “and do it quick, now, tribal. As soon as you’re fed, you’re packing out east. Cajhor awaits.”
Deros didn’t immediately take the bowl, staring up at those despised, gleaming not-eyes. Feeling the compulsion to drive a spear, a knife — something, anything sharp — right through the begging-for-it, alien receptacle.
East? There’s nothing east of the Talqua but wasteland. Unless far north, too. But he knew there must be something, after all. Something that led to their world. Cajhor. As ridiculous as it was, it had to be true.
A volcano. But why?
Back at the habitat tent, sleep was out of the cards for Deros for hours of tossing and turning and the random stew of anxieties in his mind. The separation from Palamera was the worst — not seeing, not knowing with clear evidence that she was okay. It was at least a blessing that neither she nor any of their Ironblood ‘friends’ knew he had gone to see anyone. He feared Palamera would somehow determine and suss out exactly what was wrong even without a sudden demanded meeting in the middle of the night. He was certain that jealousy would snap into her mind instantly if she heard about such a thing, thanks to Eklásia’s beauty and demeanor toward him.
I called her a goddess. I was in awe of her — so was Palamera, but the two things will be entirely different in her mind, won’t they? She doesn’t have to forgive me, though. I don’t need it or deserve it for the things I’ve considered…
He really did not want to think about his stomach-turning contingency deal with Eklásia. ‘Nothing worth considering,’ and so he’d tossed that figurine away, but it hadn’t left his mind. It was lodged there, needing endless dissection. The core of it was poison. Her promise of him and Palamera living happily ever after together like a faux marriage in her palace was a laughable absurdity. The woman wanted him and she’d ensure some way or somehow to drive her two entrapped quarin apart. It wouldn’t be hard. Palamera would never tolerate the situation.
I could free her of my burden — I could ensure she was safe and free to… I could do whatever I needed to-... no. No, I can’t. I can’t let her go, or be with anyone else. We have to escape!
Clenching his bound fists, he slapped them against the bed and rolled over. Things he could not think about; things he could not stop thinking about, taunting him, torturing him. Turning, turning, turning, making him want to scream, to run, to try that ‘impossible’ post in the ground after all. A tightness in his chest that demanded, that pulled him to do something, anything! But with an act of will, he resisted, because it was hopeless. Pushed it down and buried it. Nothing external. Calm. Sedation. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. That’s all he was: breath.
Breath and some meager tears of panic and despair. Nothing serious. Just digging my fingers into the walls of my pit! Dragging the earth down! I’ll bloody my hands piling it under my feet and stomp it down! I’ll make a tower of dirt filling the hole out! Out!
No. Calmness. He could not let it drive him to insanity. Opportunities would arise. Peace. He still had time.
Blessedly, he somehow found a bit of sleep in his forced peace, enough to reset some of his anxiety. Numb the pain. But hours still ticked by after he awoke. All he could do was lay there — or sit — and wait.
By the glow of daylight emanating through the tent walls and ceiling, he saw that the day had arrived at some point. He was brought food — baked eel, curlroot, and greens in a bowl, eaten with tongs. They didn’t bother unbinding his hands though it didn’t trouble him much. He tried to ask them where Semõìn was when he was being transported, but all he got was the customary ‘quiet, tribal’ that they so adored, spoken like reflex. They at least left him his own waterskin.
The day dragged on in frustration. He saw the friendly Sylmex Azakan across the beds again and waved. There was little else he could do — it was not as if they could talk.
He saw trickles of others brought in, but they were never positioned very close to him. One was across beds to the other side and only a few down, but the woman never even looked up from the floor. Deros thought she was a Sylmex citizen, though her attire was dirty and generic. Another Sylmex Azakan was brought in, unconscious but strangely uninjured, and when he awoke an hour later, he began screaming and pulling at his bindings, shouting obscenities. The guards came and gagged him, even tied him short up to the post, but he still made noise and trouble. Finally, guards came and took him away. He did not return.
Poor fool. Not so far from what I feel inside, what I’m beating down with a brain hammer. I hope he’s not been executed…
When Deros needed to visit the latrines, he found the system dishearteningly well-organized and secure, with plentiful guards and him kept tethered and watched at every point. It was sanitary and well-engineered, at least… They utilized a long irrigation line from the river with it following alongside until dumped back in further down the current, away from the areas that would be drinking water. A tremendous amount of work — or it would’ve been for Hamaleen. For the Ironbloods, with their suits and powerful rekasí, it might’ve been easy.
The daylight continued dying, with nothing changing. Ordinarily, the isolation they’d forced on him would be nothing much to Deros, but Palamera’s situation worried him. As he found his strength returning, and with it less strain on his brain and body, Deros decided to gather information through eavesdropping on the soldiers with the enhanced hearing of his makar’osa. On whoever and whatever he could, with the best things coming from random passersby outside that he happened to catch in range.
Much of it was useless — soldiers bantering here and there or talking about irrelevant things. There was talk about a ‘front’ on ‘the capital’ or ‘the Sylmex city,’ which he gathered was referring to Sylapoor Mexis, one of the largest and most famous cities in the world, residing far down the Talqua. ‘The Shaper with them will make it noki quick, kampi!’ ‘They’ve caused enough casualties, alright.’ ‘Guess we’re out of here, after. Fine by me.’ ‘Volcano, here we come…’
Volcano? The Spitting Titan? No, it’s too far… another one, perhaps. Esteron mentioned two, but one was far south, the other unclear. What would a volcano have to do with anything? Interesting.
Other things of questionable use. ‘... puked again, the sorry pontsekú.’ ‘Skrófa! That el le mei'pont! Everyone went through the same acclimatization tests. Did he cheat his way here?’ ‘Doubt it, even with him. Can you imagine puking inside the crown, though? Nokieu.’ ‘That’s straight parta, et. Oda, he cheated somehow, kampi. Serves him right.’
‘Oda, you seen the new sixty-one tee?’ ‘Et, someone was telling me about it, kampriço — about time they upgraded it…’
‘... just another worthless Vânser. Like a plague out here, chasing scrip.’ ‘Aren’t we all.’ ‘Et, but they are why there’s all these nok ups. Gloryhounds and hot-headed ponts. So, what, you’re a sympathizer?’ ‘No, look, I’m just saying, we…’
He heard nothing about Palamera, try as he might. He ultimately relented in his efforts once he felt the fatigue coming on, before he began to feel any strain. The less he overdid it, the more he’d heal for the next day. And it was tiring on just a natural level, sifting through their banal nonsense for what scant nuggets existed. Volcano. Hopefully, it wasn’t some codename…
He certainly got plenty of rest, for all the idleness. Sometimes all he could do was try and nap. Occasionally, he succeeded. So the day went.
Sleep at night was surprisingly good — the Ironbloods enforced quiet especially then. He couldn’t fault them for the order they religiously kept. Most of them, at least. The less-accented ones — perhaps ‘non-Vânsers’ though he probably didn’t know all the intricacies — were especially rigid and stoic in how they did things, sticking to the letter of their apparent rules. His typical nightmares left him alone or graced him with the privilege of fleeing from memory upon awakening.
The morning was much the same as before: food and laying around. He could stomach only so much eavesdropping before he gave up and passed it off until later, disgusted. The most interesting thing was someone listing off the ‘famous inns and dives of Cerovuâ’ she planned to visit with her bonus scrip: ‘The Cave of Spirits in Ot Safral,’ ‘The Nectar Emporium,’ ‘The Pelenõìr Inn of Ban Goteós.’ Her compatriot laughed and called her a nokhead for wanting to ‘piss her bonus away.’
Every so often, pangs of anxiety wracked him, worrying about his love. He endured them because there was nothing else he could do. Aside from going into breathing exercises of continually waning success.
Please let her be alright. Please let me see her face again. Please. What he prayed to, he couldn’t say. Not the gods. Not ever again. But he'd said that before...
In the relative middle of the day, he was suddenly aware of a figure even more massive than the typical Ironblood walking down the path between the beds, led from the entrance by one of the guards. Immediately, alarm flared up in Deros and he shot up on his feet, the bonds tied to the anchor stretched taut.
Raetmus.
“Guards!” Deros shouted, looking around for help. “Guards, that man” — he pointed at the approaching figures as best he could — “means to kill me! Do you want blood on your hands?!”
An Ironblood guard still making his circuit turned around to take quickened steps back to Deros, calling angrily, “Quiet, tribal! What the nok are you on about?”
“That Vânser” — he guessed wildly — “cares nothing for rules and hates me! He swore he’d see me dead on the corpse of a loved one. One I had nothing to do with! He’s mad!”
“Even tribals know about Vânsers? Skrófa, they’re worse than I thought. Anyway, stop crying, boy. He’s escorted. It’d be his hide to pull something here with witnesses — no one’s that stupid. You’re safe as an egg up a fat bird’s bum. Wahz… look at him… there’s a Vânser that big? I thought only…”
Shaking his head as the guard trailed off, Deros looked around for other Ironbloods, but the ones at the far end had not done much more than shift around, waiting and watching. They did that, at least. The patroller didn’t continue his circuit either, staying put nearby, marveling at the giant. Deros considered screaming bloody murder like the other captive had the day before, just to make them converge on him, but he discarded the thought. Raetmus might join in ‘restraining’ him and ‘accidentally’ snap his neck, after all.
Summoning daug’makar to keep his senses tuned, Deros moved between the bed and the post, where he had the most of the meager slack that the cord allowed while standing.
Raetmus sauntered down the space like he was a king being escorted, like he owned the whole facility and everyone in it, looking down on far inferior creatures, Hamaleen and Ironblood alike. His authority was nothing official, as he had no cape or even a painted triangle like a vaetor. His was an entirely self-made sense of superiority, perhaps born of the physical reality of his sheer, monstrous size. Something he seemed to leverage without restraint.
The guard stopped right at Deros’s bed, then turned to Raetmus, gesturing with a hand wordlessly, looking bored or perhaps impatient with the matter.
The giant took a few steps Deros’s way — steps heavy enough Deros could feel them through the farsense — as if inspecting, putting his hands on his hips. The escort next to him was head and neck shorter. “Ah, there he is,” Raetmus boomed, “Scheming and plotting under your ignorant noses. Can’t you imperials sniff out an agent of discord among you?”
“What are you-” Deros began.
“What is he talking about, Mesón?” the patroller asked the other guard. “And I’ll be damned if I’m called an imperial! I piss on Montacúr!”
‘Mesón’ sighed. “I don’t even know, but he better prove it, then get out of our noki horns with it. Well, Raetmus?”
Slapping his hands together loudly, enough to make everyone twitch, Raetmus exclaimed, “Ah ha! I can see it from here, you blind pigrats. Around his neck. Incompetents! Allow me…”
As soon as the giant moved in, Deros cried out and dodged, but the reach of a giant nearly three meters tall was completely insurmountable. He grabbed Deros’s cord and jerked him forward, inevitably grabbing his bindings directly and pulling him close, bed flipping over from the altercation.
“He’s going to kill me!” Deros shouted, knowing his only salvation was interference from the guards. Fighting would be futile and dangerous with someone who could crush the life out of him with one clenched fist. All he could do was stare his killer in the face with his blood pumping full of adrenaline, wait for the final move or twitch, maybe dodge or glance the blow, buy a second, buy two…
Deros was aware of contentious shouting from multiple directions, and the patroller elucidating some threat of consequence for ‘hurting the tribal.’ Small consolation.
One great pointed finger darted at Deros’s neck, but down underneath his tunic instead of as an attack. It looped under Deros’s necklace and pulled it up, holding it up slightly as though demonstrating. He paused like that — great frightful head poised close to Deros — then called out, “You see? A necklace hidden, and you fools think it nothing. But these pontin tribals have more tricks than you know. Don’t you wonder where they find their strength and energy?”
The shouts died down when it became more clear Raetmus wasn’t going to execute Deros out of hand.
“My necklace is literally noth-” Deros began.
Raetmus shook him slightly, pulled him in subtly, then through obviously clenched teeth, whispered low, “I will kill you, tribal. Sweat your worry every day, every hour, for you won’t know when, but come it will. For you and all the rest. With your spear. Doubt that as you doubt my oath.”
With that, Raetmus curled his thumb under the necklace, where something sharp cut the thong of leather free as he thrust it upward. He took the necklace with one hand and shoved Deros down to the floor with the other, stepping free. Raetmus then appeared to crush a ceramic bead under a thumb and forefinger with a crack, and tiny shards and dust were in his hand — along with some powder Deros knew could not be a product of the bead at all. It was an added trick by sleight of hand, somehow.
“Drugs,” Raetmus declared in triumphant accusation, letting the powder fall from his hand. He snorted in derision. “In little receptacles like this, hidden by your stupidity. The incompetence of imperials makes me sick. But those with culture enough to know better are here to wipe away the fog born of your corrupted, staid genealogies, fear not.”
Deros, panting from the floor, cast his eyes for evidence of the half-spear on Raetmus’s person, but he didn’t see it. He failed to see any other weapons, either. The spear had been cracked in two and the better half taken by Kerrick… it made no sense why the vaetor would give it to Raetmus, though. His death would reflect on Kerrick, surely, even if he despised Deros.
The two Ironbloods that had been at the back of the habitat approached, one of them jerking their head at Raetmus and saying, “Get that el le mei’pont out of here! He’s banned permanently!”
“He said they have drugs in their necklaces, that-”
“Et, we’ll take it under nokieun advisement. Now escort his ass out!”
“Rest easy, tribal,” Raetmus growled at Deros, then turned on his heels to march away, for all the world like he was deciding to do it himself. The guard that had brought him — Mesón — rushed from behind to keep up, pretending he was indeed escorting the giant.
The other two guards muttered to each other balefully as they eventually departed back to their post. Meanwhile, the patroller walked over to straighten out Deros’s bed. Thankfully, the bucket nearby had not been spilled over. Perhaps a small miracle.
“Oda, primitive,” the patroller ventured after he was done, “what does the drug do, anyway?”
“Aids in our sex rituals, mainly,” Deros said in a breathless lie, perhaps a bit hysterical. He felt a great loss for the necklace, composed of so many little memories. But it was gone and he’d never see it again. At least he had his token.
The patroller cackled. “Sex rituals? Nokieu. What kind of s-... I guess I don’t want to know, actually.” After pausing, he almost walked off, but said, “If you called that freak a Vânser to his face, he definitely would’ve killed you, tribal. He’s from Corzakus, not Vânsȩ. They hate each other. Corzakûssians hate everyone, though.”
“Why?”
With a shrug, the patroller said, “Just how they are. Pride, I guess. They were never part of the old Montacúrian Empire. Resisted them in the days of expansion. They’re more like reluctant allies to Cerovuâ. But I better get back to work. No more noise from you, zeko?”
Deros made some semblance of a nod, barely listening. Things are getting worse and worse. I don’t have the contingency option at all if he is to be believed. Maybe he’s bluffing, knowing he can’t touch me. He could’ve killed me right here and now, but he restrained himself. Cold, calculating hate, now. Damn it! I should’ve mentioned him to Eklásia. She had me too off-balance… just as she intended. New threats drown out the old ones, but they never die, do they?
He racked his mind for what to do. Escape was the only real thing. He could be thankful the Ironbloods didn’t seem concerned about searching him, even after Raetmus’s ‘find’. Raetmus didn’t exactly engender cooperation with his endless insults. Deros hadn’t seen many still with their necklaces, though it was customary to hide them. Most soldiers probably took such things before one even got to the habitats, considering many had precious gems and metals on them. Semõìn hadn’t taken his, likely because he was always too busy running his mouth to think about it.
Could he get word to Eklásia? No. She was down the river, dealing with the Sylmex capital. He couldn’t talk to anyone about her anyway, not until the contact she mentioned approached him. Perhaps it was unlikely in the habitat, being too obvious. He wasn’t sure. He needed to talk to them, though — whoever they were — and fast.
Sadly, the day was anything but fast, despite its momentary excitement and stress. Deros brooded on his and his party’s fate while in a relative calm. He could barely focus on his eavesdropping and found the base conversations unpalatable. The two guards at the back were talking endlessly about the intricacies of a card game. A card game. Deros gave up on the matter entirely, opting to conserve his strength.
When dinner came, he made himself eat, despite that it tasted like dust and the dark cloud in his head had little room for appetite. As a survivalist, he knew better than to turn down energy. Whatever he did, whatever he tried in the future to escape slavery or death for Palamera and himself, he’d need it.
He didn’t nap at all that day and his mental exhaustion perhaps aided him in falling asleep quick and hard...
They were with Eklásia in her resplendent palace, where he and Palamera were made to be servants. He tried again and again to escape but to no avail, as his mistress always caught him up in her tendrils while laughing about it like it was a game. Palamera grew to hate him for his failures — failing to get them away but also in convincing their mistress that her advances on him were unwanted. They were! He swore up and down, he tried everything he could, but she was relentless! Palamera wouldn’t hear it. She met another visiting Shaper who fancied her, and a deal was made — she went away with him... a smiling, suave, cocky demigod with so much more to offer her than Deros. He was left alone, with nothing but a certainty that his will would be worn down and he’d succumb to the vile, yet tantalizing pleasures of-
His eyes flashed open, the dream kept balefully lodged in his mind like truth itself. He pulled the cloak and blanket off quickly, making sure he was still in the tent. That the vision wasn’t reality.
The habitat greeted him — the only time he was relieved to see it. But the dream still tore at him heart and soul, taunting him as if it were prophetic. No. No! It won’t be us. I’ll sooner let Raetmus kill me! Sooner turn the world to ash. I won’t lose her, I won’t fail. I won’t lose the will against anyone or anything!
Calming down from a near-pant in the faintest filter of early morning, Deros sat up in the bed to greet the cold air and try to banish the feelings left from his vile, hideous imaginations. Not long after this ineffectual meditation, he became aware of a guard approaching his bed, a steaming bowl with a spoon in his hands. Far too early.
“Eat up,” the guard whispered as he leaned down to proffer the bowl of stew, “and do it quick, now, tribal. As soon as you’re fed, you’re packing out east. Cajhor awaits.”
Deros didn’t immediately take the bowl, staring up at those despised, gleaming not-eyes. Feeling the compulsion to drive a spear, a knife — something, anything sharp — right through the begging-for-it, alien receptacle.
East? There’s nothing east of the Talqua but wasteland. Unless far north, too. But he knew there must be something, after all. Something that led to their world. Cajhor. As ridiculous as it was, it had to be true.
A volcano. But why?
