The little boy was thrashing madly, yelping, and kept yawning violently. A gnash. A slow snarl crouched behind a sonic knife. His rolling eyes had turned red and his veins were black through his ashen skin. He was suffering. He looked like a porcupine, black needles stuck out him at all directions. He must have tangled with a spinefish or gotten caught up in a bramble or thicket or whatever they have down here. He broke free from the men holding him for a moment and the circle of Atlanteans quickly stepped back two paces. But one of the men was on him – fast! – and tackled the boy to the ground. When he got up, he was holding the child’s hands behind his back. But, looking down, his expression fell. One of the black darts was stuck into his chest.