Chapter 22:

Seizing Daylight

The journey across the sands continued for three days of blurred together, grueling monotony, constantly wondering if Raetmus was hatching some plot or another to execute him before Cajhor. Semõìn and the others were tight-lipped about anything of relevance around him… evidently, the keirtum had talked with them directly about Deros’s wiles when it came to gathering information. Kerrick seemed to mostly stay away from him, or try to ignore him.

Deros tried a bit of eavesdropping here and there, but it availed him nothing substantive. Many chatted in their other language in private conversations, but not all. He had the honor of hearing plenty of soldiers complaining about the suits, malfunctioning equipment, the air, the gravity, the sand, being horny, and other banal nonsense. He heard words and curse phrases he didn’t know the context of, including those involving Jandus Om, the Waymaker, Relentara, and Sorpa Senda, in particular.

The latter word he gleaned was their Lightbringer after the complaint: ‘This ponthole’s star is cooking us so noki slow, kampi, never thought I’d miss Sorpa Senda.’ Deros could understand giving it a different name than Cashor when it was so similar to their planet. He imagined it was slang… sorpa was a kind of crude way of saying ‘huge,’ in his culture. The other word he did not recognize.

He heard about a night being ‘splat night,’ and delved enough to work out that it was a re-arming of their entangling ammunition, apparently done on a ten-day cycle. One Ironblood shared with another how one exploded inside his gun, cracking and ruining it, with melnûteur erupting out of seams and the barrel. Barrel. That was what they called the gun tubes. The other soldier eventually laughed at the story and said ‘what else can you expect from shapertech parta,’ to which the storyteller admonished her mildly about blasphemy.

A few times, he heard vague mention of ‘the powder’ or ‘gunpowder’ in reference to a supply they kept. One was a sardonic comment that the heat would ‘make it blow any minute.’ Deros wasn’t certain how serious that was, or where the stuff was even kept.

All he heard about Raetmus was negative commentary on his existence there, or about what an ass he was, that he was a traitor, a ‘rich kessa,’ and so on. He seemed to be considered a scout and kept up in the very front, and due to his disfavor with the keirtum, not utilized much.

Unable to help himself, Deros also — guiltily — listened in on Paetas and Palamera’s conversations, without making it obvious to the latter’s keen senses. This was quite possible at shorter ranges, though she would know he was listening in on someone or another.

Questions were tossed out about Palamera’s favorite desserts, her favorite flowers, what her family was like. Chatter such as how bad Paetas felt for such a ‘nice girl’ to have gotten ‘caught up in this pont.’ Bragging about a few battles she’d been in. Getting shot and injured in the arm, the surgery completed by one of the Ordení themselves. The blabbering was almost endearing to Deros. Palamera was more polite and tolerant than anything to the attention while keeping a subtle, defensive posture he was fairly confident Paetas did not pick up on. Still, she seemed interested in subjects at times, through the awkwardness. It passed the time, he supposed.

He made use of the extra things he’d gotten from the keirtum, particularly at night, and made a habit of not having his stuff be stowed anywhere but on his person, regardless of the discomfort, particularly in keeping his coat and cloak on his person during the heat of the day. He made use of bits of cord he was allowed to tie and bundle them up to reduce surface area and heat retention despite his cloak hanging from his back and the coat tied up at his belt. Always, he kept ready for the need of sudden agility. It was nothing new to him.

Any time Semõìn deigned to walk away from him while he was with the rekas, Deros continued speaking commands and training the animal to obey him. Good girl, Neki. Meltesón, Neki. Good girl. He even dared to get close during feeding time, Semõìn allowing him to squeeze the food from the strange sack into the beast’s mouth, while her master held her by the head to prevent the accidental goring of soft tribal flesh. Deros patted the beast’s neck afterward, grinning both outwardly and inwardly while he thanked Semõìn for the ‘pleasure’.

I’m one of the pack, beastie. One that feeds you. You can trust me, oh yes. Despite his fragmented hopes on how to utilize the efforts, he did not try the control knob thing again. Even if it worked, the very instant Neki started moving around after she'd been told to stay, Semõìn would understand what was happening and see the danger. A battle between commands wasn’t one Deros could win soundly — at best the animal would be confused. As always, only useful under the right circumstances.

Twice they were delayed by a broken wagon wheel, which had to be replaced on both occasions, under a hail of curses from techies like Elek who were apparently the ones expected to deal with such things. Semõìn sighed at the second one, muttering about how their ‘tolerances were off in the gravity.’ Despite a seemingly universal disgruntled attitude about the overall pace, they did not pick up speed, nor travel for any period in the dark. The camp was set up at the same time every night, like clockwork.

The Ironbloods kept a firm order to things, particularly in their camps. On the other hand, as the days wore on, their scouting seemed to decline… they all but ignored their flanks, bereft of almost any advance scouting that Deros could see, something that would make an Azakan vaeton look like a lazy slouch for allowing. He supposed they had precious little to fear out in the middle of nowhere, and he assumed they focused what scouts they had ahead of them.

Thalamon and Olarius were barely ever visible, thanks to a three-pronged overall grouping and their being in the middle group with the wagons. Urchon — whom he was somewhat surprised was even with their group — was kept in the front group, seldom seen. Deros counted what he thought were eight to ten other Hamaleen aside from the Taldecca, though they were never all gathered together where he could be sure. The sleeping tent guards continued to be strict about conversing, so his words to Sâkia were minimal. He did manage to ask if the Ironbloods had moved out larger numbers of Hamaleen prior, to which he received the answer, ‘hundreds.’

The middle-aged man that was in their tent remained quiet and withdrawn, though Deros learned his name was ‘Paki,’ which had to be a nickname. Before being told to shut up by a guard, Deros — noticing Paki’s powerful physique, particularly the arms — asked if he was a blacksmith, to which the man merely nodded.

Deros remained patient for any escape opportunity to present itself. Under the cover of a blanket at night, he laboriously twisted his wrist binds enough that the opposite side was face-up, then sawed at it with his knife. Over time, the material was damaged and cut as if in tiny layers. Knowing he’d best not make it too obvious, he opted to work on the lip at the end, near the wrists, which would allow the blade to fit into a groove he could cut down. The nick was likely to go unnoticed even when the bonds were opened, thanks to the opposite side he turned to and cut not being where the seal was.

It was of course tangential to the issue of the waist tether, but the seal on it was thirty centimeters long of similar, but tougher material. He needed some other solution. Something sharper.

The cord cannot be invincible. Their own technology has to be able to match it, in some capacity, even if ours can’t.

When he was traveling with Semõìn, he made a point to keep complaining about the slack he was left with from the tether. Wearing his keeper down, Deros was finally given a little more leeway for the effort. By the third day, he eyed the extension drooping down in a loop from the back of the animal across to him at the front, chewing his lip. Thinking, wondering. And his eyes shifted to the bladed, artificial tusks of the beast.

With momentum, it’s dangerous even to Ironbloods, isn’t it? But sharp, too. A disemboweler of the unarmored, I bet. Sharp enough to cut their cords? Worth a shot, in the right circumstances. It’s always that… I’m always waiting to strike. I can’t wait forever — I can’t wait until Cajhor…

Toward the end of the third day, the terrain began to show signs of hills, and on the fourth day of travel, it got rockier, with some mountainous features in the distance. Deros anxiously sought out the sight of a volcano on the horizon but did not see it, only sometimes sharp hills or low mountains. Their route through it seemed very particular and zig-zagging. Several hours into it, he began noticing strange features, like packed-down sand reminiscent of thoroughfares in cities, and areas they passed where it was as if rock and earth had been tossed about as if by a giant. Or… blown up.

“What is this?” Deros asked Semõìn. “Your people altered the landscape?”

With only a moment’s hesitation, Semõìn replied, “Et. Smoother route for wheels through this pont. No way around it in some places, I guess.”

“Shapers?”

“Eh… a few times, I think. Not to their preference or specialty. Mostly gunpowder and mass noki elbow grease.”

“Elbow what?”

“Ah, muscle work. Shovels, picks, rekas plows, so on. We made a half-assed road. Hope those el le mei'pont wagons don’t break down again…”

“A new route… to somewhere. Or nowhere. Is there water around here?”

“We dug two wells, kampriço. There is now.”

Two wells. This isn’t a short journey. Even if the wells are close, or one is at the destination, there must be at least one last, long leg.

Deros utilized his senses to check for signs of life in the area. Sparse, but present. He even detected a few long-ranging flyers. Certainly not an area likely to be attractive to settlement without a water source and irrigation. Tough terrain to even survive traversal without supplies, but feasible.

They took what Deros believed to be a hard cut to the southeast and the day wore on through the stony landscape, sometimes hours passing without seeing more signs of the ‘road-making’ alterations. When Azrom’s falling position was around an hour before the typical camp-making time, they spilled out into another sandy plain that stretched east and south, hugging hills to the north, which was their immediate left.

After they’d made their way down the flatter terrain for the better part of an hour, Deros became aware of a flash of something in the air, then some vague increased activity around the wagons ahead… soon becoming a slurry of shouting. Smoke rising up…

Semõìn made a bewildered noise. “What in the nok-”

A cacophonous noise resounded, so loud it put gunfire to shame. An explosive fireball erupted upward in a flash from a wagon at the same time, with shattered wood cascading in all directions. It was so powerful Deros felt a shockwave pass through him, though it did no actual harm as far as he could tell. Shouting and screams followed in the wake, the worst from injured and spooked rekasí, alien howls that did not belong in the world.

Semõìn’s mount Neki was among the less disciplined, and bolted immediately toward the hills while letting loose a panicked-sounding series of warbling, shrill yelps — she was not the only one, nor the first by sounds and signs. Pack animal instincts. Semõìn’s cries and manipulation of the control knob were of no use to him while the animal’s fright possessed it. A few final eruptions from the east didn’t help nor did sudden-

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Gunfire! It’s gunfire! Shots resounded amid shouts — more and more, though Deros was unsure where, why, or how. Regardless, to him, they were the sounds of opportunity.

Daug’makar came to him with the smooth calm that was paradoxically found when facing the pinnacles of highest risk. The farsense flowed out and through, all around him in a sphere — he felt every arching muscle of the beast under him, the rhythmic gait he’d memorized, in-out, in-out, the slack of the cording bouncing and ready for the insane stunt he devised. One shot. One shot and perhaps death instead, trampled and crushed beneath monstrous force and mass.

Time to drop this blade and dance.

Deros threw himself to the side and down left as if deliberately falling off the mount, but keeping his legs clinging tightly and desperately, as hard as he could to slow the fall down across the side of the creature’s torso. He pulled tightly of that precious, precious slack on the cord wrapped around his waist, that slack he’d squeezed and squeezed and squeezed to get every little centimeter he could, all to make a little hoop in his hands.

So he squeezed one last time, that last bit of separation and space he needed, all to make a fling, a desperate curl, a comically subtle flick of the wrist channeled from a lifetime of rope tricks and the lassoing of aloga or rogue froul. Not nearly expert enough, but the farsense, the almost-touch spooling out information wed to intuition — to reflexes — made all the difference. With tiny adjustments by the pull of his wrists, the little cord hoop fell right where he needed it to… under Neki’s front right foot as it hit the ground. The hoop had hooked it.

With every subtle muscular strength he could muster, Deros held on for that moment in time, with one foot hooked around the control knob being the saving grace, as Neki’s paw and leg pulled back, going through her stride with the cord wrapped around… Deros twisted and curled the cord around his wrists again and again, then pulled hard to take the extra slack, praying he kept it taut between the leg and the anchor at the back, the only thing that would save him from being pulled under and trampled as the cord slipped.

Anchored between two points, taut taut taut… come on…

Semõìn could not process what was happening, only saw Deros begin to fall, yet barely hold on. His free hand came over, down, to grab for Deros to haul him back up. It was an ‘altruism’ that did him no favors, as it came far too late and was tainted with ignorance for what was actually happening. At that last final split moment of truth, as fingers brushed his tunic, Deros flashed a final, mad smile at that despised alien mask.

Neki’s leg caught from the rope perfectly, but it failed to snap, seeming to stretch slightly — this was all Deros could tell before the beast pitched hard downward, caught off-balance in its bounding stride and unable to stop before it crashed onto its side… thankfully the one opposite of Deros.

The momentum tossed Semõìn clear out of the saddle and tumbling with a cry of pain from some injury. Deros did not get thrown, instead landing flat on top of the beast’s side as he clung on and endured a brief slide through the sand. Deros wasted no time rising, briefly dodging the frantic, dangerous, flailing legs of the rekas as it howled and panicked…

“Neki, meltesón!” Deros commanded. Staring directly at the beast’s head, Deros sucked in a breath and shouted with authority, “Meltesón, Neki!”

The beast’s cries cut off abruptly and she froze with little more than whimpers as her head snapped over to him.

Perfect! Deros felt a victorious, devilish glee at such a mad ploy working even as well as it had, despite the cord not snapping. His eyes shifted to take everything in with a flash. The cord was stretched and frayed where it had been pulled. Weakened. Meanwhile, Semõìn had rolled down a slight dip and was cursing in pain, grabbing his armored foot and turning his head around to look over to his rekas. That he didn’t even bother pulling his weapon showed how much he was still underestimating his captive.

“Don’t worry! I’ll bring the beast to you, kampriço!” Deros called — lied —, as he unwound the cord from the anchor and rushed to bring it over to Neki’s front, staring down at her frightful head and covered snout, the glittering ‘eyes’, and, particularly, the sharp, sharp bladed tusks, still and erect.

“Good girl, Neki!” Deros affected a cheery tone as he wrapped the cord around the blade once, targeting the most damaged part he could see and pulling the cord with his bound hands to apply great pressure over the blade… “Good girl.”

“Kampriço, what the nok are y-” Semõìn began, then some realization took hold. He began scrambling from the ground, reaching for his side. “Neki! Neki, up, up!”

Just as the beast turned its head and began reluctantly moving to betray its most recent command, Deros pressed down as hard as he could over the blade and, with a cry, ripped it up with all the force a life of endless martial ritual and hunting could bring to bear from the wiry muscles it had crafted. The weakened, frayed cord slid up a razor-sharp blade and cut fiber-by-fiber as it traveled until finally the last of its strength gave way. He’d severed it, and instantly he fell backward in the sand from the sudden freedom.

Freedom!

Grabbing the meters-long slack with his eyes furiously tracking for Semõìn, Deros rose and found the view blocked by the great bulk of a rising Neki. This elicited a curse from beyond her, then Semõìn yelled for her to move out of the way, but the command was not well-understood.

Deros fled directly away in the window of that opportunity, though the terrain was not immediately beneficial. A long, sandy slope upward, interspersed with a few great rocks that would make for cover — if he could reach them in time. He had to try.

“Kampriço! Stop!”

Turning his head, knowing what was coming, Deros kept his pace running, trudging through the sand, kicking it up with every step, even as a standing Semõìn was pointing his shotgun right at him. Deros cut suddenly into a near-right angle instead of making a direct line for the cover, knowing he wouldn’t make it before a shot came. He made a zig-zag instead, pushing one direction, then aiming to curve back, trying to watch where he was going and Semõìn at the same time, which wasn’t easy. Fortunately, the farsense wrapping around his footfalls and layering over the sand kept his path true and free of trips.

Across that stretch the immediate world was deathly silent, even the distant shouts and gunfire pausing for a spell, like a collectively held breath.

It wasn’t until he planted to make the turn back that Semõìn fired. Two cracks, one very near but behind him. Deros felt only a brush across his foot through the sand, which was just enough to make him trip before reaching the jutting-out rock ahead of him. As he tried to scramble up, blood pumping in his ears and fearing the worst, he found he wasn’t caught — the entangling mass had not stuck to nor caught his boot, inhibited by the loose sand. It was embedded not far from where he rose, all wrapped up on itself like two elongated claws capturing themselves in lieu of the prey they’d been denied. The sand was stuck to it over every inch, like a new skin.

Not so sticky now, are you, you mother of bâvâ? Hamellion — our mother — greets you with a kiss.

The thought was an ironic echo in his head, even as his body was flaring to action. Pushing with every fiber in him to stumble, to race for the cover, he cast his gaze back at Semõìn manipulating his gun’s work quickly, to line up another shot, limping a step or two with a muttered curse.

Deros just saw the inside of the barrel rise to greet him before the sight was blocked from view. The rock and shadows cast from a falling Azrom greeted him. He made it. Glorious cover. Sucking in breath, he spared a passing moment to run his still-bound hands along the rough, irregular rock, as if convincing himself more firmly that its salvation was really there. A stony sentinel vaguely like the great bald head of a giant, and far greater than any mortal who’d come under its gaze, Hamaleen or Ironblood alike. One he’d never forget if he truly escaped and lived.

“Kampriço!” came the insistent shout of Semõìn again. It was a despairing noise, one Deros recognized somehow. The sound of a hunter whose quarry had slipped away.

The quarry did not respond, though he wanted to. Something smart. Pithy, perhaps. But giving away his position was no edge he planned to grant.

Let a bald-faced lie be the last thing I ever say to him. Like everything else I did.

Deros didn’t stop moving, finding a blessedly random array of rocky features splayed out on a rising cliff. Gunfire was still erratically cracking in the distance, albeit with less regularity than before. And he heard aloga screams, as well as horns and unknown war calls. Hamaleen with guns, in ambush? A pleasant thought. Sylmex guerillas, maybe — he’d heard numerous indications they’d caused casualties, and the right sort of casualties meant seized weapons.

He cast his mind back to the immediate scene he’d fled. He knew his peripheral vision had caught things, but the focus on life, death, and freedom for his immediate skin stole all his focus. He could not summon anything worthwhile. Palamera, though… how would he free Palamera…

Internal deliberations were cut short by finding a sudden drop-off ahead. It was not deathly sudden, instead a sandy slope down, leading to more irregular terrain. After only a brief assessment of other poorer options, Deros dropped down on his behind, to slide down the slope as he had such terrain countless times in his youth. There wasn’t quite the same balance to his body as he had back in those days, so he ended up rolling sideways for the last stretch of meters, but the maneuver was ultimately a success, at the cost only of slight dizziness.

Coming to his feet and hurrying for the immediate cover of a cluster of boulders, he cast his head right before to see shadows moving up on the general cliff he’d come from, though likely not exactly his spot.

“Kampriço! Give it up!” Semõìn shouted at the world from the cliff. “We’ll find you! You’ll die out here!”

Sneering, Deros shook his head and made a stealthy retreat through the terrain of endless rock faces. He summoned makar’osa and amplified sound, to track Semõìn’s position, and listen for others. There wasn’t anyone else nearby at all. Meanwhile, his lone pursuer had to come down the long, slow way from the cliff rather than a mad slide.

The others would have all charged to the scene ahead of them, probably even from a horn call order. Paetas, too. This idiot alone doesn’t stand a chance unless I give it to him. Me, die to the elements? I was born to survive them, you alien scum-worm!

Tracking Semõìn’s position continuously, Deros kept low to avoid allowing any sight angles from windows through the rocky features. His foe tried to use his mount’s speed as well, crisscrossing to cover multiple avenues of escape and hoping to catch sight, but it was useless. Deros knew where he was, often vaguely where he was going, thanks to the noise he constantly made. Eventually, Semõìn steered his search to the north and west, which was the opposite direction Deros intended.

Even without Palamera still being caught, I want to see where they’re going. Perhaps even see this volcano. I could track them… pick through what they leave behind from this scene if I can. As long as I’m careful, they’ll never know they’re being stalked. Some inner part of him knew this to be some degree of justification. It could be a one-way suicidal dive and he’d still take it if Palamera was down it. He’d never leave her.

To the east and south, Deros heard nothing definitive… The gunfire had ceased. Something told him the guerillas, agitators — whatever they were — had not exactly routed the Ironbloods. If it was what they’d intended, rather than the mere sabotage and the casualties they'd committed, then they were fools.

But it did occur to him that the sandy break in the terrain the caravan had been traversing before the ambush might allow a better escape even than the rocks for aloga, from the rekasí who had a slight edge on harder ground, and definitely an edge for endurance stretches. It wouldn’t matter either way, though… either a short stretch for separation then a fade into hide-prone terrain, or a long, softer route. Any pursuers would probably be wasting their time.

They’d dealt a nasty blow, in any case. Whatever had conspired to cause the brilliant explosion, he couldn’t be sure, but the one Ironblood he’d overheard about gunpowder had seemed to reference heat possibly ‘blowing it up.’ And the road works through the landscape… he could see such a violent burst doing the more extreme things he’d seen. And the flash in the air, smoke rising…

Fire arrows? Or some other trick? Had they known where to attack, then? Bah. What does it matter? If I can somehow meet them, I will find out. Otherwise, I’ll guess myself to a distant nowhere.

His path was through endless broken terrain, with rocky hills legion in the area, reminding him a great deal of the Tears of Jaekon he’d wandered often in the early days of being Azakan, but on a much wider scale. He finally entirely lost track of Semõìn, and Deros knew he had to reduce the intensity of makar’osa to conserve his strength. He retained a modest hearing amplification and continued from shadow to shadow, mindful of a sudden return from his hunter, when he’d inevitably give up and have to report his dire failures to his superiors. It seemed logical he’d come by some route through the rocky terrain, in case he could stumble upon Deros or signs of his movement along his way.

I’ll be damned if I leave anything to chance after what I’ve just pulled off. I think I’ve used up any luck for the day. Maybe the five-day. But I don’t even know what day it is that I’ve seized. I’ll have to count. Later.

Through the jagged hills he stalked, rock-by-rock on his way to save his love. Somehow. He’d freed himself, after all. Caution, deduction, invention, planning, then a bold execution — that was how to conduct any affair. He could do it again, against whatever odds. He had to. It was all he had, and so was she. At least, nothing else would matter, without her.