Free Remnant: Force Heretic I by Sean Williams

water on you?”
    “No, Master,” he answered, averting his stare to the ground. “There is no drinkable water down here that I have found.”
    “Really?” Nom Anor ran a thick finger over his painfullycracked lips. “It is odd, then, don’t you think, that your lips do not seem as dry as mine?”
    The Shamed One’s eyes went wide as he stammered out a reply. “It
feels
like hours since I became lost, Master. But perhaps it hasn’t been so long.”
    Nom Anor resisted the urge to smile in triumph. Poor liars tripped constantly over their untruths. “Tell me,” he said, stepping over to I’pan. “What was the work detail you were assigned to? Who was your overseer? If it wasn’t so long ago that you became lost, then they might not be too far away. Perhaps we can find them, yes?”
    Vuurok I’pan whimpered. Nom Anor kicked him again, putting all his rage and frustration into the blow.
    “Fool! Who do you think you are lying to? You have no tools and aren’t even dressed for underground detail!”
    “Please, Master! I am no one. I am nothing. I am
rishek olgrol immek’in inwey
—”
    “Silence!” Another kick. “Your voice is an offense to my ears!”
    The Shamed One became a bundle of quivering rags, face covered by sticklike arms and bony back upraised. Nom Anor thought rapidly to himself. If this Vuurok I’pan creature
was
a runaway, then he must have found some way to stay alive in the underground of Yuuzhan’tar. If Nom Anor could gain access to that means, he, too, might be able to live a little longer. That, for now, was all that mattered.
    “Take me to the others,” he snarled, putting every iota of command into his voice.
    “Others?” the Shamed One squeaked. “What others?”
    “Understand this, I’pan,” Nom Anor said. “The only reason you have not died a coward’s death is because you could be of value to me. Should it turn out that I have overestimated your worth, then I shall be sure to reconsider my actions.”
    “No, Master, please!” I’pan quickly withdrew on all fours, cowering a meter or so away. “I shall take you to the others, I swear! I swear it on the name of—”
    “If your Shamed tongue so much as dares utter one more word, I shall rip it out and eat it for my sustenance.”
    I’pan fell silent without another word. Instead he stood and—slowly, as though wary of turning his back on Nom Anor—began hobbling back the way he had come. Nom Anor followed just as cautiously, aware that he had no particular reason to trust this broken spirit he had coerced into doing his will. For all he knew, I’pan could be leading him into a trap—or worse, if he was as foolish as he appeared, leading them both to their doom on the surface, convinced he might be able to bargain a pardon from the warmaster.
    But what choice did he have? He had to go where the Shamed One led him. It was either that or continue wandering aimlessly through this gods-forsaken planet. He had survived this long, true, but how much longer could he last before he succumbed to thirst and hunger? Or before one of the search parties got lucky and found him?
    No. He needed these “others” if he was to survive. If they were as pathetic as I’pan, he was sure he would be able to use them to his advantage …
    I’pan began to relax as their journey progressed. His posture straightened and his voice became firmer, advising where to step cautiously and where to duck his head. He occasionally stole glances at Nom Anor as they walked, nervously at first, but then more boldly as they moved farther into the tunnels. The former executor could practically hear the other’s mind turning over. He had no doubt that the Shamed One suspected now who he was.
    “What?” he barked after I’pan turned around for the third time in as many paces.
    “Nothing, Master.” I’pan focused all his attention forward.
    Nom Anor grabbed the neck of his flapping robe and hauled him off balance. “What is it you are thinking,