Free Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two by Deborah Chester Page B

side.
    Aural staggered toward the dais. The world wavered and darkened around her. She had to seizert out of here.
    But there wasn’t time. She was losing control. Her rings were fuzzy shadows swirling away from her. She stumbled into someone. A hand clutched her arm. She blinked and focused. It was Unar. His face was contorted and a queer shade of brown. He tried to speak. It came out as a gargled sound.
    The humans! she thought. The treacherous fools would pay for this.
    Her body arched back in a last convulsive effort to breathe. Then she was falling, unable to hear anything more, and conscious only of a fading sense of rage that death should be so swift.

Chapter 6
    Old dreams chased Asan. Dreams of drone labor in the steaming slop pits on Dix IV. Dreams of being hunted down by city patrollers, of not being able to run fast enough, of being held back and trapped, helpless and quaking, a shard of stolen metal clutched ready in his hand, the tremor of his heartbeat thudding out of control…
    Asan sat up with a choked cry. “No, you flins! You won’t take me!”
    “Noble leiil.”
    A strong hand gripped Asan’s shoulder, shaking him. Asan blinked, coming abruptly out of the dream. He frowned at Saar’s ugly face inches from his own. Saar’s scarlet eyes burned into his.
    “Noble leiil?”
    “Yes.” Asan lifted an unsteady hand. “I’m all right. It was just a dream. A…”
    His voice trailed off and he stared past Saar, only now taking in the stone walls around them. There was very little illumination coming from a smelly torch burning just outside the barred opening in the cell door, and in the gloom he saw a metal cot identical to the one he was lying on and a short metal stool. The air was cold and held a suggestion of damp.
    He frowned. This wasn’t the Bban dara.
    He swung his legs off the cot.
    “Easy, noble leiil,” said Saar, trying to stop him. “Not yet. Rest a moment.”
    Asan shrugged off Saar’s hand, yet he remained sitting there without attempting to stand. His fingers curled around the edge of the cot. He had a sense of disorientation, of having missed an essential block of time. His mind quested back, seeking it, and found nothing but darkness and a confused impression of travel.
    He swallowed, conscious of intense thirst.
    “Where have they taken us, Saar?”
    Saar growled and pushed himself upright to his feet. His pon uniform was dirty and torn. His boots were split at the soles. A half-healed scar marked his cheek in an angry pucker.
    He spat, his body tense and half seen in the gloom. “ Ah’hi , noble leiil. We are in the citadel of the Mura-an. Sold as spoils of war to Tlar-dung. My blood is a pool of shame.”
    “Sold?” Asan’s head came up in surprise. “Why?”
    “Thy words were true. The humans have come in war. Tlar’n and Bban’n have made truce—”
    “Good!” Asan stood up, but the room spun around him. Dizzily he sank back down and put a hand to his head. “What did Ookri hit me with?”
    “A gong mallet. Thou has walked close to the shadow land for many days.”
    Asan grimaced. “I’m not in Merdarai yet. Have they given you a water pail?”
    “Water? A Bban warrior is not worth water. But if thou are in thirst, I can call the guard.”
    “In a moment.”
    With more caution this time Asan got to his feet and walked to the door. He was so weak his knees wavered, and his muscles were stiff and awkward. His stomach was a knot of hunger, and a small but persistent ache remained in the back of his skull. Bit by bit, however, he felt some of his strength returning.
    He reached out and touched the scarred iron door with a wary fingertip. The energy charge crackled, and he jerked his hand back, his finger tingling from the shock.
    “A weak field. We could get through it.”
    “Thou are not strong enough yet to seizert. And where would we go?”
    Asan glanced at Saar sharply. “You would follow me?”
    “Thou are leiil. I serve thee.”
    Saar saluted stiffly,