He couldn’t deny it, finished the thought with a hiss into the cavern, “And in doing so, have what Chepiś weaponry he carries.”
26 - Vortex
A deep-soft drone: teasing, tickling, making promises with a tongue he can’t understand, but well could know.
It remembers…
And returns to the one instinct that never leaves him long: fight.
With a cry, Tokela rolled and snatched for the knife at his calf, found nothing. Instead his knife hand was grabbed, and an equally large, well-muscled arm chuffed the breath from his lungs. He was hoisted upwards and held in a vice grip, feet dangling. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
So he started wriggling and kicking.
A curse—surely it was a curse, then a familiar voice said, in the talk of his People, “You little… Stop… aah! Stop kicking me, Tokela!”
He stilled, and all his senses began working. Maloh’s scent and voice were unmistakable.
“That’s better.”
This voice, however, wasn’t. Maloh’s companion moved into view, wrapped in layer upon layer, as if afraid of Sun. The hood was pulled back, revealing a sharp, milk-pale face… only its eyes were wrapped, small and blinking behind some sort of amber-hued glašg held by a harness. Its hands were covered, too, with some stuff that looked like hide, yet didn’t smell right. “Listen to her, little one, or we’ll be forced to knock you as senseless as your companion.”
We. Your companion. Quicksand…
Našobok!
Sky curved overhead, clear brilliance, yet Sun had retreated, shadows fingering sideways from an upthrust, striated tower of a cliff. Tokela felt—smelt—Našobok’s presence before his eyes adjusted, and relief juddered him as he sensed the breath rising, the heart pounding strong in the pulse of Našobok’s throat. Sand-encrusted from scalp to worn boot soles, Našobok had been dragged into the cliff’s shadows and flung there.
The sand pit that had taken them both was some distance beyond. Surely heat gave the illusion of movement—such things couldn’t travel, they were Earth-bound. Fire had been kindled close… or was He, truly, Fire, with such a strange and pallid presence? Unspeaking, Ša didn’t Dance. A strangely jointed bowl had been nestled within Ša’s coals. Surely such a thing couldn’t hold water?—but a wisp of mist shivered Tokela’s nostrils with moisture.
Našobok groaned, twitched, and Tokela lurched forwards.
Maloh didn’t let him. “Be easy. I pulled you both out, your companion is well enough. When he wakes, we’ve water and bark tea for you both, but I fear your pony ran, and who can blame it?”
She loosened her grip, allowing another to move into view. This one also yanked a thick hood back, revealing pale hair slicked back, doubled, and nape-knotted like to the folk of midLands. More cloth concealed its neck and chin almost to those amber eyepieces, which the creature shoved up onto its high forehead. Another shiver raced up Tokela’s spine—there was silver glimmering in the round eyes, a slurry of Starlight, and recognition…
“You,” he said.
“It is a ways from the forests,” Sivan said in dawnLands talk. “We’re both far from home.”
“Wh-why are you hunting us?” Tokela stammered.
“I was under the impression we’d saved you. From the vortex.”
“Be easy,” the other Chepiś said, just as faltering and broken. “Done is done. As Sivan says, the vortex tried to take you, but you’re safe.”
Voohr-tekhs? What was that?
No matter. They lied. He wasn’t safe. Našobok lay senseless, and they were surrounded. Perhaps Sivan had even set this… this voohr-tecks upon them.
Perhaps they meant the sand trap.
Which had moved. Somehow. Either that, or Tokela had misplaced his memory…
N’da, he hadn’t. Even as he watched, the sand trap seemed to… to writhe, and spasm, and shift sideways.
Closer.
It rose his gorge to keep looking at the thing, but he gritted his teeth, made sure it didn’t go anywhere near Našobok. Thankfully, it didn’t.
But his cousin’s breathing had steadied. Našobok was awake.
None of their captors seemed to notice any of this. In fact, Sivan and the other Chepiś seemed to be… smiling?
Sivan knelt, peering upwards at Maloh, who lowered Tokela so that his feet once more touched the sand.
“He has freckles,” the other Chepiś said, slow and faltering. “Like his dam.”
Like his… dam? “How do you—?” Tokela choked it back as the Chepiś reached out and down, stroking two cautious fingers across Tokela’s cheekbones. The urge to flee throbbed strong, but Tokela held his ground, unwilling to admit the weakness.
The Chepiś’s touch was cold, the gloves flat but pliable, and rank-smelling. “And these pictographs on his cheeks, like to hers, but less permanent.” The Chepiś leaned closer, still with that odd not-quite-smile. “Was it your dam who called you Star—”
“Tokela,” he interrupted, then peered at Sivan. “Please. Let us go.”
The Chepiś mouthed the name curiously.
The bigger they are, a soft voice teased at his consciousness, the longer and more fatal the drop.
It seemed to come from Fire. Which made no sense. This hearth was Shaped; it wasn’t, truly, of Fire.
“Jorda, we don’t have time for this now,” Sivan said, albeit gently, and pointed.
The Chepiś—Jooohr-da—followed the gesture, as did Tokela. The sand trap had moved again. And again, thankfully, it wasn’t towards Našobok, who was aware, perhaps listening, with fingers a-twitch and eyelids quivering.
Don’t move, Tokela implored.
Sivan shot a spate of syllables at Maloh who, still watching the sand trap, pulled Tokela slightly to one side.
“We cannot let you go, little one.” Sivan’s answer was quiet. Behind her the other two began to murmur in their own talk, back and forth. “I’m sorry. But if you cooperate, we will release your companion.” Her gaze flickered that way—n’da, towards the oddling sand trap. The shadows were lengthening further, and the trap had also moved: closer to them, not Našobok.
Jorda eyed it with no little concern, said something in Chepiś talk. Maloh’s grip had loosened upon Tokela; she, too, was speaking to Sivan, her tone anxious.
One of Našobok’s eyes gleamed, a knife-edge opening merely enough to focus. Beside him, Fire appeared less contrivance and
