The hita rubbed the tender ends of its arm snouts together, easing the prickling pain where the aliens had pierced rings that held chains running to a waist belt and ankle manacles. It tensed as the steel van stopped and the doors of the front cab banged. A rumble of alien cries and calls, then boots stamping away. Silence returned, except for the drip of rain water off the roof. The hita relaxed and leaned back into a corner, checking again for a means of escape. Solid walls, floor and ceiling. Only a pail of water for company. The hita cursed the curiosity that had lead it to examine the edges of an enemy camp. The Shine urging it to meet that alien shaman had lowered its guard with all of the invaders.
The scents and sounds of the shimmering green glade flooded back. The shaman's deep, clear song, soaring celestial in the cathedral of trees. The wonder of an alien changing reality, as if the alien, himself, was part of the Shine. Touching the enemy without fear and feeling wonder in the shaman too. A gift of El that each could understand the stranger for a moment. The invaders' minds were shut, even to each other. Lonely souls in closed shells, no wonder the demons from the stars hurt and destroyed.
The back door to the van slammed open. A cold wet wind raced in. The hita woke with a start. It turned its expressionless features towards the two aliens shouting, grimacing and gesturing outside the van. One pointed at the hita, the other shrugged. A cloaked Shine with an odd alien feel about it floated between them. How had they captured it? A vision of iron appeared in the hita's mind and supplied the answer.
The enemy pushed the Shine towards the open back. The hita realized with a start that the spirit was solid. They shoved the phantom in. A wave of pain blew out of the cloak. The larger alien shouted and waved his prod. The Shine crawled to the far end and folded itself to face against the wall, in imitation of a hita sitting cross-legged. One of the aliens threw in a food rations package. The doors crashed shut. The outside bar fell into place with a thud. The van rumbled and moved off.
The cloak fell sideways into a solid heap on the floor. Iron clanged as the cowl hit the floor. The Shine gave a soft, strangled moan. The wave of agony formed foreign images. Scenes of death and despair, like those hita who had survived the massacres, only this time the aliens tortured and killed other aliens. Unthinkable. Horrible. Much worse than the hita could ever imagine. An intelligent creature that deliberately hurt and murdered its own.
Physical pain rolled through the van. The hita shivered in empathy. It crept across to the Shine, sending back gentle ripples of the soothing calm used to help a hurt juvenile. It pulled back the cloak in hopes of freeing the spirit. A white hand grasped the edge to pull it back. The hita leaned forward in amazement. The cape covered an alien. Yet the hita felt a Shine somewhere. Trapped in the cloak? The truth hit. Somehow, this alien could communicate. The images and pain came from the creature, not a Shine. The hita lifted the cape and looked under. It discovered the injuries and the horrible helmet. Wicked creatures.
The alien turned his head towards the hita. Glazed gray eyes stared up through slits in the iron. Wisps of red beard and golden curls escaped from the bottom of the helmet. The hita stared down at the alien shaman. They both felt surprise. The alien sent out a stab of fear then closed his eyes, not caring whether he lived or died. The hita understood. The creature lived with the unbearable, he had lost his clan.
The hita sent soothing images of the peaceful forest glade. The alien opened his eyes. He tried to give a call or perhaps sing, but only a grunt came out. The others had locked his mouth. He glanced at the water pail and sighed. An image of the shaman drinking the cool, sparkling water of the spring appeared in the hita's mind. The alien thirsted but he couldn't drink. This the hita could cure. It moved to the pail and sucked tepid water up its snout. Sitting beside the alien, it gently pulled the cowled, helmeted head onto its lap, careful not to strike its own chains against the hard metal. Water sprayed past the iron bit, down the shaman's dry throat. He glanced up with gratitude. The hita sent him all its memories of the calm and peace of the sacred glade. The stream bubbled again, the heat of the day soothed, the lizards sang and croaked. The alien filled with the power of his song and beat back the pain. The hita lifted the heavy head onto the floor and, noting that the cape still felt of a Shine, tucked the cloth around the alien who drew it around him and sank into a fitful sleep.
The hita watched him for awhile then drank some water. It ripped open the food package and took out a fruit bar. Back in its corner, the hita peeled and snorted the wrapping off the bar, sniffed, then curled its arm snout and lifted the bar to its mouth. It chewed a small piece, found it good and downed the rest. The hita leaned back and dozed.
The door banged open. The hita stirred. Dante struggled into a cross-legged position, facing the back of the van. His hand hurt, his wrist throbbed where the manacle cut into the swollen flesh. His aching back pulled where the blood stuck to the cape. He tasted iron and his impotent magic rebelled. Nausea and dizziness rushed over him. He leaned his heavy helmeted head against the wall. The trainer walked down the length of the van and squatted beside him.
"You remember what to do when punished, good boy," he whispered. He placed a hand gently on Dante's shoulder. Rotten's fetid breath smothered. "It breaks my heart, seeing you miserable. Why some owners think a transpo can be freed, I'll never know. Like a tamed wolf released to the wild, you just can't cope with no one to look after you. Here now. I'm going to take a look at your hand and back. Then a bit of food and drink. Get you all fixed up."
Dante froze as the trainer undid the cloak and pulled it off, not even flinching when his scabs yanked away with the wool. The man pulled a cloth from his pouch, dipped it in the water pail and washed Dante's back. He rubbed a soothing cream over it.
"My special boy. You've grown up big and strong," he murmured. "A delight for the eyes. You can read and play and sing, I understand. And you learned to farm and fix things. Noble manners and speech. A wonderful purchase for any owner, even without your special talent. It would be a shame to have that net put back in your head. I know you'll obey without it." The trainer undid the helmet, removed the bit and lifted it off. He massaged Dante's jaw. "We'll soon have that ugly beard gone. So much better." He ran his fingers through Dante's flattened curls. "His Highness has only begun to understand how valuable you are. Let's take a look at your hurt hand."
The trainer examined the seared flesh and tight swollen skin. He removed the constricting fetter. Dante moaned as his circulation pounded back. The trainer tsked. " Such a waste. You may lose a finger or two. This won't do." He gave a rotten toothed smile. "The Undermage needs a bit of training too, I think."
Dante continued to stare at the floor, his own face now the mask. The trainer grabbed the helmet, rose and glanced at the hita. He sauntered down to the doorway, the mask bouncing against his leg. A jungle clearing stretched out beyond the opening. An interplanetary police officer sat on a stump drinking a bottle of beer and munching on a small wad of bliss. The cop raised his bottle in a salute.
"The hita didn't attack him, then?" he asked.
"Of course not. Didn't I tell you? I've tamed it. And him. Great day for a picnic lunch," grinned the trainer. He gestured at the hita. "Out both of you. Let's have a bit of fresh air for Prince Yevgeny's found treasures."
Dante pulled the cloak back around himself and stumbled up. The hita followed his lead. They scrambled out of the van. The trainer gestured for them to sit on the short ground cover. Dante noticed that the van sat all alone on the side of a dirt road, deep in a sub-tropical jungle. His stomach clenched. The lost boy on the ship had dissolved long ago, the false kindness of the trainer didn't fool him one bit. The picnic wouldn't be a picnic for him. Deep inside, anger replaced Dante's despair. No one deserved this. He hated -- hated them all.
The guard brought a large cooler out of the cab and set it beside Dante. The trainer dropped the helmet, opened the lid and inspected the contents with a jolly murmur about the quality and quantity of the food. He placed folded paper packages in front of Dante and the hita, then pulled out a couple of bottles of beer and more bliss. He broke off a large wad of the drug and placed it and a beer beside Dante's lunch.
"I know you'll enjoy this," he said. "Magician's Bliss, the ruin of many a young noble. Mage's private illegal supply."
Dante stared at the drug and the bottle. His head still throbbed, thirst sat back in his throat. Though he'd never chewed, not that foolish after an aquaintance died instantly, still the bliss called enchantment to him. All his pain, the sordid acts the trainer intended to force on him; he wouldn't care once he floated in its fabled clouds. And if he died, so much the better.
"Life's gonna be good," smirked the trainer. "Obey me and your master and the perks'll flow. I guarantee it. Drink, drugs, even women. I'll make sure you'll still be able to get it up."
The cop snorted. Dante's anger grew. Thunder sounded over the jungle.