by M. L. Ryan
“Yes,” I grumbled, shifting a bit in a vain attempt to make myself more comfortable. “I’d give almost anything to lie flat right now.”
“It’s a time-honored technique to keep us depleted, physically and emotionally. Less chance we will have the wherewithal to flee.” Alex touched my leg, but with his bound-together hands, it was more like a knock than the intended comforting pat.
“How screwed are we?”
“That depends. Sebastian and I tried to compel the leader to let us go, obviously without success. We will have to rely on guile and experience rather than magic.”
I found his admission oddly uplifting. One couldn’t find two more battle-wise Xyzok, and as for scheming, Alex’s mentor had no equal. “If deviousness is our ticket out of this mess, I’m glad we have Sebastian.”
A deep voice rumbled to my left. “And I you, my dear. Do not discount your own innate talents for chicanery.”
One of our guards lumbered over and muttered, “Yiftak,” while jabbing Sebastian with his foot. Given the accompanying glower, I figured that meant some variation of “shut the hell up.” We stopped talking until Private Grumpy Ass returned to his spot, a makeshift lean-to a few yards away. At least he was somewhat out of the rain, I thought glumly.
Because of the way we had been strapped, I could barely get a glimpse of Ulut, who was next to Sebastian. The Jyryxahal were behind us, and even with our backs pressed together, I could tell by their rhythmic breathing they were asleep. How they managed under such wretched conditions was a mystery, but at least some of us were getting some needed shut-eye.
As dicey as Courso magic was in Dekankara under normal circumstances, it became obvious being trussed up made the situation worse. TBD’s men used our climbing ropes to link us together, but they secured our hands with their own magically imbued tethers. Ulut didn’t think any of the rank-and-file had significant arcane ability, so their warlord likely provided the magic pre-raid. Whoever supplied them, the bindings prevented any supernatural attempts on our part to remove them.
The next morning, we set out again. The rain stopped just before dawn, and the warmth of the rising sun was a welcome relief on my chilled body and waterlogged clothes. They did give us some food—a stale piece of bread each from their own stocks—while the greedy bastards chowed down on our supplies. I chanced a rueful glance back at Dekan-Babo as it, and our likelihood of getting back home, grew smaller with each step.
Later that day, feet blistered and aching, we limped into the transfer point. Much like an army camp, it was full of ratty tents and unkempt men. Hostages must have been something of an unusual acquisition as TBD got rock-star treatment as he paraded us down the central path, with back slaps and raucous greetings galore. We had no opportunity to eat or rest, but once I saw—and got a whiff of—the raw sewage that flowed behind the rows of canvas barracks, I had no desire to linger.
They loaded us into the back of a flat, four-wheeled, wooden wagon pulled by a team of sturdy horses. The sides were open, but it did have a fabric cover across the top to provide some shade. A driver, along with another dude, sat up front on a long, padded bench with TBD, while our other guards rode alongside and behind on their own mounts. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but we weren’t bundled as close together anymore—they graciously provided a few extra feet of rope between us—and we didn’t have to walk.
We traveled east, past the Santa Rita Mountains, past the Dragoons, and around the tip of the Chiricahuas into what back home would be New Mexico. The terrain was familiar, but instead of dry washes, an abundance of small streams cut through the landscape. Still underfed, our water rations increased to something approaching a reasonable amount of hydration. Someone must have realized hostages who died of thirst weren’t nearly as profitable as live ones.
While we had some slack between us during the daylight wagon ride, each night, they strapped us to one another tightly. They allowed us breathing room only when two guards escorted us, individually, for potty breaks. In those moments, I appreciated the modicum of privacy afforded by my billowing skirt. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to drop trou in front of the leering creeps.
Despite the magical bindings, as a means to aid our escape, I attempted to compel misbehavior in our captor’s mounts. With Gera’s mule, I’d attributed my failures to the innate stubbornness characteristic of the creatures. When I found a similar unresponsiveness from the horses, I wondered if my charms just didn’t work on equines. Next, I tried sending out a more general call-to-critter action but the squirrels, rabbits, and wild turkeys that responded ended up not as our saviors, but as dinner for the guards. It bothered me that the animals died because of my invitation, but I was completely pissed off when the hunters didn’t even offer us any of their catch.
Undaunted by these failures, and buoyed by my ability to override the magic-sucking restraints, I again focused on a specific target and summoned a cast of hawks to swoop down and peck the crap out of our abductors. Only a few showed up, and they didn’t attack, just circled above us, squawking. After some trial and error, I managed to oblige them to crap on our captors. Their aerial unloading didn’t help us get away either, but seeing the guards splattered with excreta did bolster my mood. Despite the one partial success, there seemed to be no clear pattern to if and how I could affect specific species, and I longed for a nearby jaguar or a massive herd of feral goats that never materialized. What was the point of possessing the ability to influence animal behavior if it wasn’t helpful when we really needed it?
After almost two weeks of monotony, we turned in a more northerly direction. Three days later, I noticed our captors’ attitudes changed from bored vigilance to anticipation. In the distance, I could just make out a verdant, winding rope of tall trees, a sharp contrast to the beige and browns of the desert. Doing some mental calculations, I figured we were nearing the Rio Grande River, and, I hoped, our destination. I wasn’t sure I could take another day bouncing on poorly maintained dirt roads in what amounted to, for lack of any discernable suspension, a giant, horse-drawn skateboard.
As we entered the lush treescape surrounding the river, TBD sent a couple of men ahead. He seemed almost giddy as he watched them gallop away, probably envisioning a hero’s welcome for snagging such valuable plunder. The river itself was much wider than what it was in the human dimension, and apparently deeper as well—a long, cigar-shaped keelboat, rowed with twelve oars, sliced through the middle. I wasn’t certain any segment of the Rio Grande was navigable by such a large vessel back home.
We followed the river north for most of the afternoon until we reached a small village. The buildings were similar in construction to Gera’s house—adobe bricks with thatched roofs, in varying stages of neglect—placed haphazardly near the riverbank. They were scattered in such an odd way, the wagon couldn’t maneuver in between them, and we were forced to take a longer route around the perimeter.
“No such thing as urban planning in these parts,” Alex observed.
“I know,” Ulut agreed. “With constantly changing leaders who generally don’t care about anyone other than their own soldiers, the regular folks get short shrift. These houses are probably abandoned quarters from past warlords.”
“Why do they look like they were just plunked down randomly?”
Ulut sighed. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Likely, the settlement’s original layout was in a grid. When squatters took over, they moved some of the houses to form a more compact arrangement; their lives are quite tenuous and they feel safer clustered together. It’s not easy to relocate a house, so they did the best they could.”
“Of whom are they afraid?” Sebastian piped in. “Rival factions?”
“Sometimes, but the more likely culprit is their own warlord or his men. Here, those in power take what they can, when they can. These folks,” he said, gesturing toward the few people brave enough to stand outside while we passed by, “are systematically abused in one way or another by almost everyone.�
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Everyone I saw kept their shoulders hunched and heads down, clearly bullied and victimized. “What a crappy way to live.”
Ulut shook his head. “You have no idea.”
He’d told me a little about his childhood—poor, unsupervised, and wild—probably similar to what these villagers experienced. “Isn’t there any place in Dekankara where there are laws and benevolent leaders?”
“If there are, I’ve never seen or heard of one.”
I let that unpleasant bit of information roll around my mind. What must it be like to have nothing to look forward to, no chance of bettering oneself? And yet, despite all the uncertainty and suffering, they still soldiered on, making the best of their shitty circumstances and meager surroundings. They obviously had children, I could see a few well-worn toys scattered about—a doll made of corn husks, a ball stitched from fabric scraps. What did parents tell their kids? Anyone might come and steal the little we have, or kill us for no particular reason, but go on out and play?
I continued to stew over the inequities of the third dimension until we swung around an abrupt curve in the river. Across the water, a hulking peak protruded from the opposite bank. Something about it was familiar, and it took a few minutes of staring at the thing before it hit me.
“I’ve been here before,” I yelped.
Alex narrowed his eyes. “Like, in a dream?”
“No, I mean I’ve been here back home, not actually here, here. It’s called Elephant Butte.”
It was surprising I recognized the place. My parents took us camping there a few times when we were kids, but the human version was a state park with a forty-mile long reservoir, created at the turn of the twentieth century when a dam was constructed. The butte, actually the remnant of a volcano pipe, became an island in the resulting lake. Here, the unblocked river flowed around it.
Sebastian squinted at the lone blob of rock. “Doesn’t look like a pachyderm to me.”
“I could never see it, either,” I admitted. “I mean, it looks sort of like an elephant’s back, but it just as easily could be a camel or a big cow.”
“Perhaps the person who named it dabbled in jimson weed,” Sebastian speculated. Fascinated by humans’ ability to find any indigenous species with mind-altering properties, Sebastian had become an expert on natural hallucinogens. Like the mushrooms when we first arrived in Dekankara, he loved experimenting on himself and then reported the deliriant effects in excruciating detail. His toad-licking phase was particularly gruesome.
The warlord’s headquarters sat directly opposite the butte. Resembling a small town—if the town was inhabited by circus performers—it was a mixture of hundreds of tents and some permanent structures, even a few simple horse-drawn wagons, similar to the vardos used by gypsies in the 19th century for travel and living space. Everything designed for a quick getaway, it seemed. Despite the illusion of impermanence, the sewage streams rampant at the wagon depot were happily missing.
We stayed under guard while TBD disappeared into the biggest tent, perched on a small hill. Guarded by two humungous sentries stationed at either side of the entry flap, the canvas pavilion was more than three times the size of any of the others. Must be the big, bad, boss man’s. I didn’t notice any other men posted around the tent and wondered how beefy soldiers at the door provided security when anyone could just cut into the fabric anywhere else and gain access. When I voiced these observations, Sebastian quickly pointed out the flaws in my logic.
“I suspect the warlord is not concerned about a single assailant attempting an assassination.”
“So, it’s just for show?”
“Yes, like the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace,” he explained. “They aren’t there for protection, but you know someone important is inside. Besides, it is difficult to knock on a tent. They also serve as a sort of intimidating doormen.”
Sure, even a greedy, coldhearted despot needed his privacy.
Moments later, TBD flung back one of the tent flaps and motioned to his men to bring us in. Ulut reminded us to act harmless and contrite while he did his best to negotiate our release. Ulut knew how these dirt bags worked, and he was confident he’d find a way to convince the warlord to let us go. How he might accomplish that seemed a bit murky to me, but it wasn’t as if we had a lot of options.
The tent was, indeed, grand and opulently appointed with cushy chairs, colorful rugs, and an abundance of bear pelts strewn about the floor. Even with Alex, Sebastian, Ulut, the Jyryxahal, TBD, and a dozen guards to keep us in line, the place felt cavernous. Toward the rear of the space was a real, honest-to-god bed. Two months of sleeping on the floor of Gera’s barn coupled with the wretched travel to Elephant Butte had taken its toll. Much as I hated to admit it, I almost fell to my knees and sobbed at the sight of the cozy, non-straw-covered mattress. Alex must have sensed my weakness, squeezing my hand to prevent me from making a complete ass of myself. That, or he too was overcome with thoughts of sleeping supine on something soft and used my fingers as his own touchstone.
A man stood at the far end of a long, rectangular wooden table. His face was in the shadows, and the only distinguishing characteristic I could make out was that he was of medium height and build. Once our guards lined us up for inspection, he poured something into a tumbler, took a long, slow draught, and stepped forward into the light.
Ulut swore under his breath.
“Do you know this man?” Alex asked.
“Yes,” Ulut replied, all color now gone from his face. “It is Jifga.”
22
“Jifga?” I squeaked. “Keem’s Uncle Jifga?”
Ulut nodded, never taking his eyes off the warlord.
Just wonderful. Jifga hired Ulut to track his embezzling nephew. It was during this service that Ulut—in dog form—followed Keem into the human dimension. Ulut remained stuck as a canine, while Keem went on to wreak havoc in Courso. From what I understood, Jifga was a ruthless, power-hungry bastard, unequaled among the numerous warlords throughout Dekankara. Our hopes of dealing with an easily manipulated goon had diminished considerably.
Filled with trepidation, I resisted the urge to roll the egg in my palm. I’d managed to keep it hidden thus far, and I didn’t want to risk calling attention to the egg now by shoving my hand down my shirt to retrieve it. Besides, Keem gave it to me, and while the egg’s magical vibes quieted when he died, I wasn’t sure if Jifga could detect his nephew’s arcane signature upon it. He may have wanted his sticky-fingered relative hunted down and punished, but that didn’t mean he’d take kindly to finding out Keem was dead, or how he met his demise.
As if his delusions of grandeur weren’t already apparent from his hilltop-surveying-his-kingdom-lush-quarters, Jifga relaxed into a richly appointed chair raised on a small platform, its resemblance to a throne unmistakable. From this regal perch, he spoke at length with Ulut, keeping his features neutral except for an occasional crease in his forehead. After a fair amount of back and forth, Jifga called TBD forward to present the contents of our packs. Or, I noticed, the things TBD didn’t keep for himself. The satellite phone, cell phones, and the pawboard were there, but my goggles, along with a few other items, were conspicuously missing.
Skimming off the top, are we, Big Dirk?
As Ulut and Jifga continued their conversation, I noticed Alex and Sebastian listening with more attention than I’d expect from people who didn’t understand the language.
“Are you getting any of this?” I asked quietly.
Alex dipped his head once, a gesture I took as a “yes.” I knew he had a gift for languages, but he’d become proficient in Dekankaran in the relatively short time we’d been here? I still struggled with rudimentary Courso after almost a year of study. Hell, I had trouble with English half the time.
Whatever Ulut said to Jifga, the warlord hadn’t taken it well. His previously detached tone of voice shifted in both intensity and volume, and he’d pushed forward on his seat. After a while, Jifga’s tirade diminish
ed, but he still glared at the clearly miserable Ulut.
“Jifga wishes me to inform you that he appreciates your ‘gifts.’ I have told him that you are from across the sea, and hired me a guide and translator as you do not speak the common tongue. He is skeptical of the claim that you are from far away, and wants to know who to notify to pay what he expects to be a sizeable ransom. I have explained that your kinsmen, while rich, are also across the sea, and it will take months to apprise them of your fate, much less return with enough money to pay for your release. He is displeased.”
We’d settled on that story during the trip. Ulut knew any warlord would try to extract ransom for such apparently wealthy hostages. The Xyzok had a policy of non-negotiation, and Sebastian’s initial reaction was to say we were not well off at all. Ulut argued the tactic would result in our immediate deaths—with no possibility of a big payout, there was no reason to keep us alive. Unfortunately, we were essentially destitute in the sense that there wasn’t anyone in this dimension for the warlord to bargain with. Thus, we crafted a tale of loved ones more than willing to shell out loads of cash, but too far away to do so quickly.
Ulut pressed on, pretending to continue translating Jifga’s words.
“I had no idea it was Jifga. Had I known, I’d have advocated for an escape attempt early on in our captivity. Now, our best bet is to make do, and wait for an opportunity to flee.”
“Will there be one?” Sebastian challenged.
Lips pursed, Ulut responded with a terse, “It will be difficult, but in time, we shall find a weakness to exploit.”
Jifga interrupted. As before, I understood nothing he said, except for one word, “Keem.” He repeated his nephew’s name a number of times, with Ulut interjecting some responses here and there. When Ulut dropped his eyes, and Jifga grimaced, I knew some of those unknown words had to be, “Keem’s dead.”
Just to be sure, I asked Sebastian—as quietly as possible—for confirmation. I figured if Alex knew the language, it was a good bet he did, too. I was correct; Sebastian confirmed that not only had Ulut delivered the news of Keem’s untimely death, but he’d also falsely confessed that he had been the killer.
