At this the bat-court twittered and rustled. The Night King signaled for silence.
“Long ago, my people sherved the Remnant,” he said. “Our freedom comes with cost.”
Tol’zen frowned but waited in silence for the old bat to finish.
“ ‘Freedom, freedom,’ we cry, but long-time, freedom ish deny to ush.”
A murmuring swept through the cave. The Night King continued: “Finally, we agree. Make pact. With your five-timesh-removed grandshire.”
Here, the Night King paused. Pashera suspected that he was not repeating this for Tol’zen’s benefit, but for the benefit of the bat-faced listeners around him. “And part of that pact was mutual aid.”
Another murmur swept the crowd.
“And lo, jusht a few ten-daysh ago, the Shky People,” he emphasized the last word, “ash they call themselves, come to ush with an offer. To wage war on you,” and here, the Night King pointed at Tol’zen with his one good hand.
The cave grew silent. “And what did you tell them?” Tol’zen asked.
“We shay no,” the Night King said. “For one, we are a peashful folk. For another, you got terrible weaponsh, which I wish not my warriorz to fashe.
“Sho, the Shky People go away. But two dayz later, they come back. In the daytime. When we shleep,” he said, outrage growing in his voice. “They carry their ashid, and throw it into our cave. Then they throw in wood. Then they throw in fire.
“Many of ush,” and here the Night King pointed to his own injured arm, “are wounded that day. That terrible day. Many die. And our glorious home turns to ruin.”
Pashera could barely make out the nearby walls of the cave in the darkness. But now that he mentioned it, the floor near her was burned and scarred.
And that acidic smell – acid! The acid bombs of the sky pirates.
“I am sorry, Great King,” Tol’zen said, and he sounded like he meant it.
“Oh, you not be shorry,” the Night King said, grinning ferociously. “For now we go to war!”
The cave exploded in voices. “War!” cried one who could speak the saurian tongue. Others cheeped, whistled or twittered with savage gusto.
“But the Shky People fight in the day, while we fight at night,” the Night King told Tol’zen. “This is why we don’t fight them now.”
“Leave that to me, King Radaldyth,” Tol’zen said. “I will arrange for a battle at night.”
The Night King held up his good hand for silence.
“Three of my warriors vie to replashe me,” he said. Protests erupted on all sides. “No, don’t deny it. I know. I know. But I tell you the truth. The one who fightz hardest in the coming battle, who shows the besht leadership, that is who leadz from that day forward!”
The crowd erupted in a jabber of arguing voices. Some males stepped forward, thrusting forward hands to show they were now sheathed in metal claws. “Revenge!” one shouted, and the others picked up the cry.
“Revenge! Revenge! Revenge on the Shky Piratesh!”
Tol’zen stepped forward to clasp the Night King on his good shoulder. “We drink on it,” the Night King roared. Cups clattered in the dimness.
Pashera stepped back from the milling males. The large bats, or whatever they were, still made her very uncomfortable. The fact that they spoke seemed a crime against nature. She could accept that Tol’zen was from a different race. Starting with his black-as-night skin. Still, but for his feathers for hair and bird-like feet, he seemed human enough. On the other hand, talking bats … something about that revolted Pashera on a primal level.
Then to her horror, she realized that a group of the bat creatures were studying her. Studying her very closely. Pashera whirled around and was about to go running for Tol’zen, when one of them spoke.
“You have large teatsh,” the creature said. Its voice was more mellow than the Night King’s dry tones.
“Excuse me!?” Pashera asked. Was that supposed to be a compliment? True, among her own tribe, in what passed for courtship, a warrior was expected to list everything he liked about his intended mate. The subject of the woman’s breasts usually came up, but associated with the words full, round, child-nourishing and so on.
And the women of her tribe did preen and decorate their breasts, and show them off to best effect. As her mother once told her, “they’ll hang down to your waist soon enough, enjoy ‘em while they look good.”
But to be spoken to by this strange creature that should not speak at all, and then to have it focus on her breasts, made Pashera cringe. She covered her breasts reflexively.
“You have large teatsh,” the bat-thing said again. Pashera realized it was a female. Since all the bat-creatures were bald it was hard to tell from first glance, but it lacked any male equipment between its legs. It was smaller than the males by at least a head. And its breasts were very small. Crab apples, really.
“Don’t they get in the way?” The bat-thing asked.
“Most of the time, no,” Pashera said. But then she added: “Honestly, on the ride out here, it was painful the way they bobbled up and down. I wish they were held in place the next time I ride on one of the mounts.”
“Ah,” the bat female said. “Well, maybe weaverz could make you something.”
“What?”
“Weaverz,” the bat female said. “Come, come.” She picked up one of the softly glowing lights and indicated for Pashera to follow. Pashera looked back at Tol’zen, but he was busy toasting Radaldyth and his warriors.
Why not? Pashera followed along. Other females came along with them, about a half-dozen or so. The great cave was enormous, its walls and roof stretching away into darkness. They passed small groups of females and young ones gathered around the smallest of fires. Piles of fruit littered the cavern floor, and they walked through a barrier of burned wood – wood that must have been salvaged from what the Sky Pirate attack had ruined, Pashera realized.
Soon enough, they reached a wall, and a passage leading through that wall. The passage led down and around in a corkscrew fashion.
Just when Pashera was about to object and turn back, the passage opened up into another great cavern. This one was already lit, more brightly than the first cavern, with lights in regular sconces around the wall. Pashera looked at one of the light sources as they passed. It seemed organic, with roots growing right into the rock.
The light was clean, though. She could see well enough. The bat people winced and covered their eyes, and waited a couple minutes for their eyes to adjust. Then the bat-female brought her further into the cavern and whistled-called to a figure, one of many, busy doing some activity. The figure stood up and turned around.
“The weaverz,” the bat-female said, pointing.
Its face was human enough. In fact, the head was downright human. But that only made it more awful, because the bald head balanced on a round hairy ball of a body, from which eight long arm/legs projected. The creature looked at the bat-female, chirped a greeting, then looked at Pashera curiously, and flexed two of its spider arms.
Pashera shrieked. This was too much: A giant spider wearing a human head. Then she realized that the head was not some trophy, but integral to the creature. She remembered the giant spiders in the stables, the ones with half-human faces. This creature must be related somehow.
“Don’t be shcare,” the bat-female said. “Weaverz help. Fair trade.”
“It’s … nothing,” Pashera said. “I’m sorry. I was just startled, that’s all. I’ve never seen a weaver.”
The weaver’s face was distinctly female, with fine bone structure that was totally at odds with the gross, globular body it sat atop. Its eyes studied her every movement closely.
The bat-female said something in her whistling language to the weaver, who stepped forward to get a better look at Pashera. The weaver was tall – taller than Tol’zen, even taller than the male bat-creatures. But all the height was in its long legs/arms, which ended in four toes or fingers. The nails on the toes/fingers
seemed painted or discolored in very bright shades.
The weaver cavern was filled with ropes which stretched hither and yon. Other weavers, attracted by Pashera’s shriek, swung down the ropes in a blur of speed. All had women’s faces. Some, like the one that the bat-female first hailed, had nut-brown bodies, and the skin on their human heads was paler in color. Others ranged from pale white to pitch-black. The heads did not match the bodies’ color on any of them. Some were completely bald, others had short, spiky hair. And their bodies and arms were covered in short hairs as well.
Soon, a dozen or so weavers crowded around. Pashera suppressed her panic. They seemed more curious about her than anything.
“Human femalez are so rare here,” the bat-creature said. “We trade with humansh in lower valley, but only men. And men don’t dare come here.”
“Well, I guess human women are braver,” Pashera said. But her voice quavered.
The bat female spoke for a while in her whistling tongue. She reached over with one hand and cupped one of Pashera’s breasts, lifting it up and down gently as if weighing it. Pashera stopped herself from batting the bat-creature’s hand away. The weavers looked on in fascination.
“I explain problem,” the bat female said. The weaver whistled a question. “She ask, ‘does this hurt?’ ” the bat female added. The weaver reached forward and, gently but firmly, cupped and pushed Pashera’s breasts against her chest. The creatures’ odd, long and calloused fingers felt like human hands pressing on her breasts, and for some reason, that sent a shudder down Pashera’s spine.
“No, but I would prefer you stop doing that,” Pashera said, covering her breasts protectively.
The weaver whistled again. “She think she know what to do,” the bat creature said. “We wait a while.”
The weaver used her hands to measure Pashera’s upper torso. Other weavers whistled advice, or it seemed that way. Then the weaver got busy at her equipment.
Pashera had never seen any kind of weaving equipment, and the only sewing her tribe did was with needles of hedgehog spine and fishbone. But she understood that the weaver was making some kind of clothing very quickly.
The bat creature talked to Pashera while they waited. “May I ask something in return,” she said.
“Of course,” Pashera said.
“May I touch your hair?” the bald creature asked. “And the otherz want to touch, too.”
Pashera’s eyes popped at the curious request.
“No hurt,” the bat female said. “I want to touch.”
“What’s your name?” Pashera asked.
“Delth,” the bat said.
“Well then, Delth,” Pashera replied. “I suppose you can touch my hair. But don’t pull on it.”
For the next little while, Delth and the other bat females took turns patting Pashera’s head and running her blond-brown hair through their fingers. “Sho nice,” Delth said approvingly. “Shuch fine, fine hair. Finer than man hair.”
Meanwhile, the garment took shape under the weaver’s expert touch. The weaver came over and indicated for Pashera to put her arms over her head. Then, in one fluid motion, the weaver pulled the clothing down over her.
The garment was a soft, white-gray color. It wrapped around her, with holes for her arms and a larger one for her head. It was short, coming halfway down her chest. The material was soft, yet strong and supportive. Her breasts were pushed and held against her chest, but not in an uncomfortable way. The weaver whistled.
“Thish will hold your teatsh in plashe while riding,” Delth translated.
Pashera jumped up and down a few times. Her breasts didn’t move much.
“This is much better,” Pashera said. “Thank you,” she said to the weaver.
The weaver whistled back.
“Now she want something,” Delth said.
“What’s that?”
“She want to touch your fine, fine hair.”
Pashera assented to that, and the weaver was joined by others of its kind, who all cooed as they patted her hair and ran their long, strong, amazingly gifted fingers through it. Meanwhile, one weaver brought a mirror and Pashera twirled to see the new garment on her. It covered her breasts, but not in a confining way. She liked it a lot.
The weavers whistled in a cacophony of sounds, back and forth. “Now she want something else,” Delth said.
“What’s that?”
“She want shum of your hair.” The weaver’s fingers stopped stroking and pinched a bit of Pashera’s hair. “This much.”
Pashera sighed. “Oh, all right. But that’s it.”
The weaver produced a sharp cutting tool and soon held a lock of Pashera’s hair. They made their thank-yous and goodbyes. Then Delth led the little party back up the winding passage.
When they got back across the big cavern, Pashera found Tol’zen so frantic with worry that he bordered on furious. He was also a little drunk.
“WHY did you do that?” he demanded in an urgent whisper. “What were you thinking? Wandering off like that, anything could have happened to you. You don’t know the dangers here. And WHAT is that THING you’re wearing?”
“Why did you bring me along then?” Pashera asked boldly, running her fingers over her new garment. “If not to explore?”
Her question stopped Tol’zen’s fury cold. He looked around furtively. “I’ll tell you later,” he whispered.
If Tol’zen was a little drunk, the Night King was more than a little drunk. As were his lieutenants. But still, they went through the rituals of formal goodbyes.
“Do you have to fly us back?” Pashera wondered aloud. Her arms ached at the thought.
“Oh no,” the Night King said. “Take the stairz, they go shtraight to the path.” He pointed to a passage leading off to one side.
“Then why … we … you …” Tol’zen sputtered. Then he composed himself and bowed low. “Thank you, King Radaldyth. Our alliance will prove most beneficial.”
“To the utter death of our foe!” Radaldyth roared, and raised his cup again.
Some of the more sober bat creatures guided Tol’zen and Pashera down the stairs to a path. This, in turn, led them straight to the meeting place where the troopers waited for them.
“Lord Tol’zen,” Dar’asst exclaimed in obvious relief. “We didn’t know what happened to you. What did you find?”
“I’ll tell you what I found, boys,” Tol’zen said, as he mounted the yast a bit unsteadily, then pulled Pashera up behind him. “The seeds of victory.”
Chapter 8. Memories and Wonders
The next day, Tol’zen took Pashera to meet his brother at the edge of the city.
Pashera had learned enough about saurian society to know that the first half of any saurian’s name was the family name. Hence, Kro’tos had a nephew named Kro’brin. And Tol’zen’s father was named Tol’karion.
What she did not know is that females took their family names from their mothers. She would learn that later.
Anyway, when Tol’zen took Pashera to a large, odd building with wide doors at the edge of the city, and they were met by a group of scientists and slaves, he greeted his brother as “U’Chan.”
Pashera almost questioned him on this. But she realized Tol’zen didn’t know she’d spied on him and U’Chan in the eating area of their home. As far as Tol’zen knew, she was ignorant of who U’Chan really was.
“How go the preparations, U’Chan?” Tol’zen asked.
“Good.” U’Chan showed them a row of three male human slaves seated at equipment. Each slave remotely controlled a small, wooden powered flier high in the air.
And yet to say the humans flew the planes is a bit of a cheat. A saurian wearing a headset sat behind each human, but not close at all. The distance was about 35 or 40 man-lengths by the measures of Pashera’s old village, but she was learning that the saurians would measure this as 60 lissaros[3] (and each lissaro contained 10 issols, and each issol contained 10 luts). The saurians’ hands mimicked the hand move
ments of the slaves. It was obvious the humans moved not at their own volition, but as an extension of the will of the saurians.
“They are like puppets,” Pashera thought to herself with a shudder.
“Only good?” Tol’zen asked U’Chan.
“Well, it’s the problem of distance again,” U’Chan said. “The controls work nicely in proximity, but when they get further away …” he trailed off. Then added: “I’m sure we’ll bridge the gap with time.”
“We don’t have time,” Tol’zen said. “And if Thal’tos wasn’t sabotaging me, you’d have more than enough help establishing long-distance control. The finest minds of the Cogitorium should be at your disposal.”
U’Chan looked around nervously. “Things are difficult,” he said finally. “Thal’tos is … problematic. The tasks and obligations he is handling are many.”
“Bah!” Tol’zen said. “Thal’tos is a foot-dragging layabout, a traitor who ignores the will of his king and of the Remnant. All authorities, engines and powers are subject to me. To ME! Isn’t that what the king said?” Tol’zen spat these last words and glared at the scientists around him.
U’Chan looked around nervously and said nothing. Pashera wondered, was this a display they were acting out for the benefit of others, others who didn’t know they were brothers? Or was Tol’zen genuinely frustrated with U’Chan?
Tol’zen suddenly waved his hands as if to say “no matter.”
“The good news, U’Chan, is that I have a solution for you.” He pulled U’Chan aside and spoke to him low tones. U’Chan glanced at Pashera more than once as Tol’zen spoke. Finally, Tol’zen pulled back and nodded to his brother.
“We’ll give it a try,” U’Chan said. He walked in front of the saurians to get their attention.
“Land the fliers,” he said. “We’re going to try something else.”
In a matter of minutes, the fliers skidded to a stop on the ground. They were very light, mere toys. As they landed, each saurian broke his mental connection with the human he controlled. The humans jerked and slumped in their seats.
Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1) Page 16
