by Frank Tuttle
When Tyre had woken, he felt like he must be dreaming, or in purgatory, or worse. The first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was an odd-looking long machete, blade gleaming in the murkiness of the cell, catching the flaring of a dying torch mounted to a nearby wall. The blade mocked him—a weapon he couldn’t reach.
He had caught a flash of color and movement, and took in the fact that he was not alone, but imprisoned with a man in full Mayan regalia. He had squinted against the pain coursing through his head, only to pull back in shock at the sight of SinJin, smeared with symbols the color of dried blood, battered and bruised, in a full feathered headdress, wearing only a loincloth. He was chained to the wall, out cold.
Tyre pulled at his own chains, and came to grips with the fact that he was in the same garb, and just as helpless, although more conscious. “You look ridiculous,” he tried again. He had to get SinJin to start talking, keep him conscious. If he slipped away again, he might slip away forever.
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