Chapter 13: The Use Of A Prisoner Part 1

The first time they captured Andrea, they'd had the decency to knock her out.

She'd stopped kicking and yelling as soon as their party was out of sight of the burning fort. When it became clear that Dr. Larsen wasn't going to get his shit together and rescue her.

Not as if Andrea had had high hopes.

She knew all the tricks. Go limp and polite. Flex your muscles when they tie the cords around your wrists. Don't show how happy you are when the stupid amateurs tie your hands in front of you. Smile, be polite while they attach a leash to the cord and lead you like a fucking dog. Slog for what feels like miles through the primeval undergrowth, feeling every bug and dinosaur-leech in creation attach itself to you, all the while working the bonds until they get loose. Lie down meekly when they finally stop for a pre-dawn rest, wait for the guard to look away, then twist your arms together, lock your left elbow, and pull with the right.

SNAP.

Andrea's hands came free. Come to think of it, she'd had never actually had a chance to put that particular training into practice back in the real world. Nice to see her instructors hadn't let her down.

Andrea rolled to her feet in a silent heartbeat, or silent to her ears anyway. The man guarding her twitched like a cat and spun, dreadlocks bristling.

Jungle instincts. But no military. The caveman saw her, but his first reaction wasn't to call for help. He tried to grab her.

Andrea turned sideways, and stepped inside his guard. It was child's play to grab his elbow, place her foot over his, and pull. She followed the guard's fall down to the mud, and before he could cry out, Andrea stamped on his neck. Bone popped under her heel.

No time to think about the dead man at her feet. Andrea ran.

***

"What ails you, Mentor?"

Trals slitted his eyes, as if that could block the noise.

Vrem padded around a bend in the trail, smiling his big stupid smile. "You can't be unhappy about the raid. You led us brilliantly, as always."

Why didn't the yapping idiot go away? Didn't Vrem know his Mentor needed to be left alone? The battle was over, the killing was done, and it hadn't been enough. It was never enough.

Trals turned his eyes away from Vrem's tempting jugular and scanned the forest. Walnut-beeches and sycamores shone gray in the predawn light. No challenges in this forest. Perhaps not anywhere on the Face of God. Trals was exhausted, hollowed out. There was nothing left for him to conquer.

Trals had been a fool to think Njrea could stand against him. Stupid to think she could entertain him for more than a few beats of the heart. It would be weeks until he could maneuver himself back into a real battle. And what battle would that be? More raids against trade caravans? Duels with rival Ethlek? Any sort of reprisal from Ngarong would be months in coming. The long, peaceful span stretched ahead of Trals, smooth and dull and deadly as the surface of the Desert Sea.

"Is it your snatcher that's bothering you? I'm sorry. We lost her at the fort." Vrem approached and Trals's arms twitched with the impulse to stab, strangle, tear. By now Vrem was a good enough fighter to offer some excitement.

But as always, Trals thought before he acted. Vrem was the son of the Driver of the triceratops herd of the Uppalitch Ethlek. Killing the boy would turn the herd against him, and without their support, Trals might never visit full revenge on the hated Slavers. Trals stilled his wrathful thews and his vengeance-quest lived on. So did Vrem.

"You'll have to train up another snatcher," the boy chattered, following, "I think you can get a good egg from Mree."

Trals made himself respond. "First, let us give Srav a chance to find us." Trals needed to keep moving. Keep working toward his goal.

"How do you expect her to find us, exactly?"

Trals made sure his lips were smiling before he let Vrem see his face. "Why, I've left clues, of course. The mud we use to protect ourselves from the sun, you know how snatchers love to stare at it? I've been leaving a trail that Srav is trained to follow."

Vrem laughed. "That's my Mentor. I still have much to learn. Oh." His satchel rustled. "Do you want breakfast? I brought infester greens. Ginger leaf and saltweed too, to hide the flavor."

Trals grimaced at the green wad.

"And I shot a purgator." He patted the blowgun and the dangling fur-ball at his hip. "We can add meat to the meal."

"And cook it how?" said Trals. "Eating bloody meat is more bad luck than we can afford now, and we are too close to our enemies to risk the smoke from a fire."

If there was one thing Trals Scarback missed about the stinking, slaving city of Luna Meridiana, it was the food. There, you could eat until you burst and there would always be more. Here on the Face of God, Trals must content himself with the leaves he chewed. At least the grubs inside would keep him strong.

"Are the men ready to leave?" Trals pushed through the foliage.

"They will be in short order, Leader. But we have time."

The sky was lightening. Soon dawn would cast a blush across the Face of God. Vrem's hand closed over his wrist. Their eyes met.

Trals considered saying no. They were in a hurry. But there were duties a Mentor had to his Mentee. He made himself smile.

Vrem moved closer and Trals suppressed the impulse to grab the invading body and tear it apart. Trals concentrated, focused on his goal: the forging of Vrem into yet another weapon he could ram into the Slavers' bellies. It had been the same with Turtle, and all the other men and women Trals had used.

There. Finished.

"There will soon come a time when you will have to find a wife, and we will have to stop doing this."

"Nonsense," Vrem said, standing. His voice was mellow though, and he was smiling. The sex had been a good tactic. "I'm your Mentee, and you have no wife. I can't marry before you do."

Ah, so perhaps the sex had been a mistake, binding Vrem to him more closely. "You're already old enough to be a Mentor, yourself, and you can't tell me you don't notice girls."

"I do," Vrem admitted. "Just recently, I have had my eye on someone."

"And who might it be?"

A blush grew under the tattoos around Vrem's eye. "Um. A girl from outside the herd."

That was a good sign, indeed. A girl from another Ethlek herd would not be under the influence of Sayer Shra, Trals's most active nemesis among the Uppalitch herd. "I'm glad to hear it." Trals thumped Vrem on the back. "So let us make haste back to your woman, eh?"

The young man merely shook his head, expression cagey.

"What will we do with Njrea when we return home, Trals?"

"See how we can use her, of course," Trals set them walking again.

"Talk with her, you mean? Do you think we can get her on our side?"

That surprised Trals. "So I hope, but few of the others think that's possible. 'On whose side is the tyrannosaur?'"

"'The bloody one,'" Vrem quoted back, "but the others only saw her in battle. We saw her on the boat. We know she is capable of reason. But what use can she be if the paarsoot no longer works? She is entirely helpless."

From the forest ahead of them a cry rang out. "To arms! Escape!"

Trals's head came up. The sky, he saw, had turned the clear yellow color of a ginko-fruit.

Njrea had escaped again. And if Trals caught her, they would fight. The future was looking better already.