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12 – The Descent

Chapter 12 – The Descent

The journey down the slope of the caldera’s outer rim occupied the trio of bonded companions’ thoughts with an odd mix of curiosity and despair.

Bound tightly with cords too thick and knots too tight for his hands and legs to easily wriggle free, Sylven rode in a crudely fashioned cage strapped to the back of a giant’s pack, barely large enough to fit him in a fetal position. The mesh-like bars bit into his shoulders whenever the giant shifted, forcing him to brace himself against the swaying frame to avoid being battered.

Vikka fared little better. She was crammed into a wooden box, her claws tied behind her back. Though she wasn’t as tightly restrained as Sylven, the close confines and lack of mobility made her feel like a hatchling stuck in its shell. She took out her frustration by thumping her tail against the rough slats. The basket with her egg had been taken from her, and though no one treated her particularly cruelly, the giants’ casual apathy grated on her nerves. They made sure she was well-fed at least, offering her unfamiliar but palatable enough roots and mushrooms when they stopped to rest. Sylven got a wet crumb at the end of a stick.

Whisker, in stark contrast, was unbound and rode atop a padded platform on another giant’s shoulders. The only precaution to keep him from escaping was a rope tied between his harness and a loop around one giant’s wrist. His ears twitched nervously, his large, dark eyes scanning the strange terrain. Though he didn’t understand the full scope of what was happening, like a thorn in his paw, he sensed Sylven’s unease through their bond. Still, the giants fussed over him, occasionally scratching behind his ears or offering him bits of fresh fruit or greens. Whisker didn’t know what to make of the attention, but the soft touches calmed him slightly, even if he missed Sylven’s reassuring presence close by. He couldn’t reconcile their kindness with the pained emotions filtering through from the Shy.

As the group descended for a couple of hours down a barely marked path, the landscape around them began to shift. The lush foliage and rugged slopes of the caldera’s rim began to give way to groves of wiry, scraggly trees and gentler terrain.

From his cramped cage, Sylven tried to keep track of the changes. He peered through the mesh, noting the paler soils, and sparser, spindlier plant and animal life. The caldera was a world he knew intimately, but this… this was alien, menacing even.

Vikka sat stiffly in her box, peeking between the gaps in the slats. The view was just as unfamiliar to her, but she wasn’t as unsettled as Sylven. She wanted to leave the cradle, see new places, experience life outside the nest, and that’s just what she got, although quite different from how she imagined her adventure would go. Her mind kept drifting to the giants—their size and strange ways, how they seemed to totally dominate this harsher land outside the caldera. They seemed like enlarged, exaggerated versions of the Shy, but with none of the skittishness or grace.

Whisker’s attention flitted between his new carers and surroundings. The smells and sounds were different, but they weren’t what disturbed him most. He couldn’t ignore the vague impressions of Sylven’s discomfort that reached his mind. He pawed at the big tough shoulder he was perched on, but the giant carrying him scratched his chin then offered a piece of sweet, juicy carrot, distracting him from further rumination.

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After several more hours, or what felt like a full day’s hike to Sylven, the group halted at a clearing somewhere around the midway point of the caldera’s height. The ground was flat and even enough to pitch large tents and set up a large cooking pit. Sylven sniffed the air and could make out traces of old fires, stale food, and even what he now recognized as the dried up remains of the giants’ excrement. This was obviously a regular campsite of theirs, and based on their preparations, it seemed they would be staying the night.

When the fire had died down to coals and the giants had eaten their fill, Sylven and Vikka were pulled roughly from their cages and, while still bound, made to stand up in the middle of the camp on either side of a tall iron lantern. The lantern towered over Sylven and almost came up to Vikka’s shoulders, its glass panes glowed with a flickering flame, casting their captors’ shadows across the clearing, their elongated shapes making the giants seem even larger.

Their attention darted between the Shy and kobold with a mix of fascination and puzzlement. When they had all settled around the lantern, one giant pushed a smaller one to step forward and sit closer to the two captives. He was barely a head taller than Vikka and lacked the bigger ones’ lumbering swagger. A child perhaps, Sylven wondered, and likely a boy by the looks of him.

Unlike the adults, who gestured broadly and never deigned to get down to their level, the boy kept his movements gentle and cautious. He crouched low to better meet Sylven and Vikka’s gaze, his eyes alternating between the, filled with a mixture of sympathy and uncertainty that made him seem less threatening, if only by comparison. His clothes looked worn and patched and seemed in need of a proper wash. So did the boy in truth, his mouth close enough that they could feel the warmth of his breath, his wide-open eyes almost as big as Sylven’s face.

“Ko-bold,” he mumbled, pointing at Vikka. His pronunciation was rough, the words dragging clumsily off his tongue. Then, to Sylven, he said, “Shy.”

Sylven tensed. The word, though clear, sounded foreign in the boy’s mouth.

The boy pointed to himself and the other giants. “Human,” he said with emphasis. Sylven had never heard the word before, but its meaning was clear.

The boy then gestured toward their cages and then at their bindings. “You,” he began, pausing to think, “Shy. Kobold. One… Trap?” He pointed his left hand at Sylven, his right at Vikka, then brought them together suddenly in a loud clap that rang like a thunderbolt.

Vikka narrowed her eyes, her claws curling against the damp earth. The sounds the boy made held no meaning for her, but she somehow understood the word “trap”. The way the humans pointed at her and Sylven confirmed her suspicions.

“Is he trying to speak in your language?” Vikka whispered. “Our bond is translating his words for me. They’re wondering how we ended up being captured together,” she growled in her own language.

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Sylven, for his part, said nothing. He focused on piecing together what little he could glean from the boy’s crude words and signs. The bond between him and the kobold hummed faintly, fragments of meaning passing through.

The boy tilted his head, as if waiting for some kind of response from the Shy. When none came, he changed tact, pointing to Vikka’s basket then mimed a round object with his hands. “Egg?”

Vikka bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile, a honking laugh escaping her. “Even these giants want my egg!”

The boy didn’t flinch. Instead, he glanced at Sylven and muttered something to the adults behind him. Sylven couldn’t understand the words, but the boy’s gestures—pointing at him and then Vikka—seemed to draw speculation and amusement from the humans.

“Don’t let them know about our bond,” Sylven muttered to Vikka from across the lantern.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Vikka hissed. “I think they can only speak bits of Shy. Their tongues and lips look much more like yours, just a LOT bigger! They also kind of sound like you, just a LOT louder!”

“Hush. Keep pretending that we don’t understand each other,” Sylven whispered from the corner of his mouth.

After a short discussion with the boy and the rest of their group, an adult giant, who looked like a female based on her hair, clothing, and ample chest, walked over and leaned down to coo at Sylven. She patronizingly patted his head then ruffled the fur lining his vest’s collar with a fat finger. “Good…” she said in rough Shy, flashing her gigantic teeth, each one larger than Sylven’s hands. She looked over to the t boy and called out to him a word that Sylven understood all too well. “Tame?”

Sylven’s heart raced as she motioned with a meaty hand, her fingers curling toward him like claws. She reached over and yanked him up by the collar of his vest. The sudden movement jarred his limbs. Before he could recover, two enormous hands pinned him down—a hand from the woman and another from one of the men standing guard.

“Good,” the woman snarled, her face close enough that Sylven could see the hairs in her nostrils. Sylven turned his head, choking back a scream and refusing to meet their eyes.

The woman tugged at Sylven’s bound arms and legs, snapping the bindings like string. The ropes dug into and scraped his skin as they were yanked free, leaving angry marks that stung in the chill air.

“No fight. No run.” the boy said in soft, halting Shyspeak. He stood to the side, his face pale.

Sylven glared up at the giants, these humans, his mind working at full clip to figure out his options. All his Shy instincts were screaming at him to slip through their fingers and disappear into the surrounding vegetation. But even if there was a slim chance he could pull off an impossible escape, something in their bond held him back from fully abandoning his fellow captives. There was also no point in fighting—not while surrounded by monsters who could crush him with a single step. He let his limbs go limp, signaling his compliance and reserving his energy.

The human woman’s scowl deepened, as though she found his lack of resistance disappointing. She reached down and grabbed his vest with both hands. With a grunt of effort, she yanked it off, the force making Sylven stagger.

Next came his belt and trousers. The boy hesitated but stepped forward to assist, his smaller, nimbler fingers pulling the buckles and knots loose. Sylven grit his teeth, his face burning with humiliation as he stood before them in nothing but his undergarments.

The human chuckled, her lips curling into a mocking smile. “Good,” she muttered, holding up his vest like a plaything. Together with his other gear and necklace, they were carefully set aside.

The boy glanced at Sylven, his expression apologetic but resigned. “Good Shy,” he said awkwardly, as though trying to reassure him.

Before he could react, even his loincloth was yanked off with humiliating indifference and tossed into the fire. Sylven felt a spike of anger but swallowed it down. The woman’s laughter boomed again as she grabbed a dipper of cold water and splashed it over him. The shock of the icy liquid made him gasp, and he stumbled backward, shivering.

“Clean,” she said mockingly, tossing a scrap of cloth at his feet.

Sylven stared at the fabric—it was a crude tunic, patched together from rough sackcloth and stained in places. It was far too large for him, its coarse fabric overwhelming his diminutive frame. He used it to help pat himself dry then pulled it over his head, adjusting the oversized garment as best he could. The armholes were well past his elbows and the neckline sagged awkwardly, threatening to slide off one shoulder, the hem dragging on the ground when he tried to take a few steps.

The woman doubled over with laughter, her hands on her knees. “Good Shy,” she sneered, clapping her hands in mock applause. The other giants who stood guard also guffawed at the sight of him struggling to move, their amusement clear even without understanding their words.

Sylven’s face burned with shame, but he refused to show weakness, forcing himself to stand straight. He deftly tore strips from the hem to fashion a belt and straps, with which he could cinch the fabric closer to his body. It wasn’t much, but it allowed him to move without tripping over himself and recover some dignity.

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The other giants began rummaging through his belongings, holding up pieces of his gear like curious children inspecting a puzzle.

One human with gray hair and round windows of glass over his eyes held Sylven’s Arclith necklace between two fingers, the shard’s faint glow catching the light. He exclaimed something in the human tongue, his voice booming with triumph.

The group’s leader, a gruff man with a weathered face and a messy beard, stepped closer. He took the Arclith and turned it over in his hands, his eyes narrowing.

Gray hair held up a round piece of glass over the shard and pointed out the faint runes etched along the surface.

The leader didn’t say a word. Instead, he grabbed the necklace and placed it in a metal box with an intimidating-looking lock built into its lid. He gestured for the rest of Sylven’s gear to be kept inside—his belt, his tools, his weapons, and even his boots.

Sylven’s heart sank as the lid was slammed and locked shut, the metallic clang echoing in his ears. That box now held everything he could use to fight back, to escape.

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“Hands,” the giant woman bellowed, snapping Sylven out of his thoughts.

He hesitated, so she pinched them roughly with her fingernails, snapping metal rings around each wrist. Chains made of heavy wire connected the manacles, clinking faintly as she tugged them to ensure they were secure.

As the boy assisted by keeping a hand around Sylven’s arms and legs, the woman repeated the process with his ankles, binding his feet with matching rings and chains. The metal was cold against his skin, its weight a heavy reminder of his helplessness.

“No run,” the boy said again, his voice soft. “No fight.”

The woman smirked, giving the chain a sharp tug that made Sylven stumble. She leaned in close, her grin stretching wide. “Good Shy,” she said mockingly, patting his head with exaggerated condescension.

Sylven resisted the urge to flinch, his pride burning hotter than his fear.

He was suddenly jerked up by the chain between his wrists. All his weight pulled down on his hands as he thrashed about in the air, his legs kicking ineffectually as she walked him over back to the cages. She then rudely dropped him in front of his cage and he collapsed onto his knees. Hunched over awkwardly in his oversized tunic, the chains tinkled with every movement as Sylven struggled to regain his footing.

He stood and looked up at the monstrous woman defiantly. She let loose a bark of laughter at his face as she nudged him forward with her boot, tripping him back down on his knees. “Go,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument, the toe of her boot pushing at his backside.

Sylven crawled back into the cage, exhausted. The manacles and chains, the rough and humiliating treatment, being stripped of everything he had—all of it seemed meant to make him feel small and powerless.

He clung to the thought that this was all a challenge he was meant to overcome. But as the cage door slammed shut, a cold wave of doubt washed over him. He was trapped and at the mercy of horrific monsters.

At least he wasn’t alone.