The exertion of his outburst left him winded so soon after whatever that was that brought him here and he felt slightly dizzy as his heart raced in his chest. There were so many questions racing through his mind and he was sure he was running off pure adrenalin since a severed arm had barely phased him but he was prioritizing getting home first. He would deal with the PTSD later.
"Mitchell, I--" she cut off then, head cocking as she keyed in on something. Then she jerked up sharply. Immediately she reached for one of her long-bladed knives but before it was out of the sheath, Mitchell saw the air ripple just behind her, and a man just sort of... appeared, like he was stepping out from behind an invisible curtain. He was big but not like Tall Gray And Crispy had been back in the house. He looked human and was wearing some sort of leather armor. In his hand, he held a stout wooden club about two feet long and, as Mitchell watched, he started to bring it down, aiming it straight for the back of the girl's head.
"Allora!" Mitchell cried out, but he was too late.
The club connected solidly with a sickening sound, and she crumpled as if her legs had turned to jelly. The big man looked at him his eyes flicked up and over Mitchell's shoulder. There was the sound of movement behind him. Before he could turn to face the new threat, there was a sharp pain that exploded his whole world and he was once again unconscious.
*****
The first sensation Mitchell felt upon waking this time was a slow rocking motion. And heat. He felt as if he was sitting in a sauna and being cooked. His senses began to slowly come online and there was the press of bars into his back. His legs were bent and cramped and there was a stinging sensation around both of his wrists. He heard the rhythmic sounds of plodding feet and the creaking of wood and metal. Then the smell entered his nose. It was a heavy, musky scent that reminded him of summers at his grandparents' farm in Illinois when he was a kid. The smell of horses and cows mingled together with an almost ever-present smell of manure.
Every part of him hurt. His back was cramped, his legs were stiff, and every rocking motion made him want to retch. His head was the worst of it, though. He imagined this is what it felt like to have your skull in a vice with someone slowly increasing the pressure. He felt like he wanted to crack his cranium open and pour his brain out onto his lap.
He wished for the painless void of unconsciousness but he knew he was up and there was nothing to be done about that now. There was a painfully bright light pressing into his eyelids and he was squinting before he even tried to open them. With an effort, he cracked open first one eyelid, then the other. He couldn't stop the groan from escaping his lips as harsh sunlight pierced his retinas. He brought his hands up and noticed then that there were two manacles around his wrists that were linked by a short chain. There was some kind of writing on it but his eyes couldn't focus well enough to make out what it might be. After blinking rapidly for several agonizing seconds, his vision started to clear and he could see the bars of his cage.
The bars were a sturdy-looking dark wood with iron bands at the top and the bottom holding them together. There was maybe an eight-inch gap between each one. The cage was barely four feet to a side and only a little higher. Mitchell was sitting, legs curled with his back against the rear of the cage. As near as he could make out he was in a wagon and, through the back, he could see a desert. Nothing but sand and burning blue sky to the horizon. Looking around he saw that he wasn't alone. To his right was another occupied cage, this one containing Allora. He could make out her black hair, sticky with blood, dangling through some of the bars. Mitchell, remembering that he had been whacked in the head as well, reached back and felt the tender spot that was the source of the radiating pain that seemed to be traveling all the way down to his feet. Even the light pressure he applied to the large and oozing bump made his vision go blurry.
"I've probably got a concussion," he said to himself.
Allora wasn't moving. As he turned to get a look behind him he saw another cage, this one also occupied and when he saw who was inside, he couldn't help but cry out and flinch away.
"Oh, shit!"
His voice was raspy and weak, but the creature in the other cage heard him and stirred. He was some sort of monster or demon. At any rate, he fit the description of demons that Mitchell had grown up with. His skin was a coppery-red color and he had long black horns that curled around to the back of his head. As his eyes opened and met Mitchell's own he saw that they were golden in color and they seemed to glow. Bisecting each pupil was a black slitted iris, just like a cat. His cheekbones were so pronounced that they almost looked like ridges of bone protruding from his skin and his nose was thin and came to a near point. His lips were black and as they parted and he began to speak, Mitchell saw white fangs where normal human incisors might be.
"Ava yorn, muthrak." His voice was deep and rich and he didn't sound at all put out by their current imprisonment.
Then, despite his best intentions, Mitchell started to retch. Overwhelmed by the movement of the wagon and the nausea from his head wound, his stomach contracted and he heaved. Not that there was much to throw up. It felt like hours since he'd eaten. That didn't stop his protesting stomach, however. The more he heaved, the more the pressure built up in his head until he thought it really would crack open. Thankfully, he passed out before that happened.
*****
Mitchell awoke when warm water splashed him in the face.
"Rocen!" came a hard voice.
Mitchell blinked and brought his manacled hands up to wipe the liquid from his face. He was so thirsty he almost sucked the water from his fingertips but they looked filthy and he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. They were no longer moving. Looking around, he saw he was still in his cage in the back of the wagon. His body ached even worse than before if that was possible, but the air was slightly cooler although the sun was no less bright. His head was still pounding but not quite as bad as before. Added to all that misery, his throat felt like he'd been gargling with sand.
The figure standing over him with a now empty ladle glared down at him. It was the same man who'd hit Allora when they'd arrived in whatever this place was but Mitchell could see him better now. He was of normal human size. His armor was a mix of black and brown straps, buckles, and patches of leather that had to be murder in this heat but, despite a face covered in sweat, the man seemed to be dealing with it well enough. He had a sword at his left hip and a dagger at his right and he wore breeches tucked into well-worn leather boots.
The man said something to him that Mitchell couldn't understand. Mitchell just blinked at him and the man repeated himself, a little angrier this time. Allora spoke up then, saying something to him and the man sneered at her. His jailer then looked to the front of the wagon and said something else incomprehensible. In the silence, Mitchell turned to look at her, his head only swimming slightly. She turned her violet eyes to his and they gazed at each other for a long moment. Her pale skin was streaked with sweat and grime, she had a black eye and blood had run down from the back of her head along her jaw and dried in a dark line but she was still beautiful. The tilt of her eyes still gave her a bit of an alien appearance, but he thought he could pick up a deep sadness in her expression.
After a few moments, another man appeared at the end of the wagon. He pulled himself up easily and stood next to the man with the ladle. He was outfitted in similar attire, sword included, and he had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was then that Mitchell saw his ears. They were pointed and angled back slightly against his head and his eyes were a silvery blue that, despite the circumstances, Mitchell found beautiful. In the bright sunlight, the silver streaks in his eyes almost glinted. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were thick with muscle. He moved with confidence, like someone who knew what he was doing. He said something and then glanced at Allora who gave him a terse reply.
As Mitchell stared at him, he held out a hand and Mitchell saw then that he had a glove on. But not just a regular glove. There were almond-sized gemstones embedded into the leather across the back of his hand, one just behind each knuckle. Mitchell saw a couple of them glimmer with an inner light that was noticeable even in the brightness of day and felt a tingle across his skin. Then the man with the pointy ears spoke again.
"Can you understand me now?"
"Yes," Mitchell croaked. "Water, please."
God, he sounded pathetic, he thought. But that really was the most pressing thing on his mind. His lips were cracked and when he had reached up to feel them, his fingers had come away wet with blood.
"Give him some water."
