Chapter 21
A LITTLE SPARK WON'T HURT
Arioch
The boy woke with a start when I lowered him onto the floor at the portal station.
His fearful gaze snapped to mine, and he shuffled backward, hitting the wall with an oomph.
“Steady.” I showed him my empty hands. “We are not here to hurt you.”
His gaze shot from me to Tyrin at the terminal. “Who are you?”
“Lord Arioch Scylla, but you can call me Arioch.”
My húskarl had long ago abandoned his surname and title, so he offered only what he could. “Tyrin.”
“What are you doing here?” The boy shook his head. “Why save me?”
“As for your first question, we are searching for something.”
The boy’s scrutiny only increased. “The machine?”
“No. We are searching for an artifact that was stolen from my home.”
“Okay. But why’d you save me? Wait.” He perked up. “Did my nan send you?”
“No one sent us, but when we heard your cries, we had to intervene. Children should be cherished and protected. Not tortured.”
“I’m sixteen.”
He spoke as though his age somehow invalidated my concern, when it did precisely the opposite. “Yes. A child. What they were doing to you is unconscionable.” I assessed his gaunt frame. “When did you last eat?”
He frowned and shook his head. “I dunno. What exactly do you want from me?”
“Want?” Shaking my head, I looked to Tyrin, but he appeared as confused as I felt. “I am the lord of a manor. I want for nothing.”
When his expression remained unconvinced, I retrieved a rasher of salted meat from my pack and offered it to him. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and gave me a wary look even as his stomach growled in response.
His distrust was understandable; however, I could count his ribs through his filthy, tattered tunic. The boy needed calories. Plucking the meat from his hand, I took a bite and handed it back.
Outrage dropped his jaw for a split second before he snatched the meat and shoved it as far into his mouth as possible, biting off a good half of the rasher. His cheeks bulged with the impossibly large bite, but his eyes lit up at the flavor.
“Delicious, is it not?” I asked.
He nodded, and I handed him another.
“Where shall we send you, boy?” Tyrin asked from the terminal.
“I…” Sorrow flashed in the boy’s eyes. Chewing, he looked away and swallowed his bite. “I dunno.”
“What about Australia?” Tyrin suggested. “Is that not where you hail from?”
“Yeah. I’m from Brisbane, but there’s nuthin’ left for me there.”
“What about your parents?” Tyrin asked.
“They’re dead. I’m an orphan.” He stuffed half of the second rasher into his mouth.
Something stuttered in my chest, and I responded automatically. “Then you are welcome to join us.”
Both of their gazes snapped to me.
Tyrin would never openly question my decisions, but his expression implored me to heed caution.
I could tell him I was as surprised as he was at my cavalier words, but it would change nothing.
Looking at this malnourished and badly beaten child, with claims to no family and no home, I would not rescind the offer.
“Okay,” the boy said around a mouthful.
His response came too easily.
“We will continue after my stolen artifact. Our path will likely be perilous,” I explained, somewhat wary. “There must be somewhere safer that we can send you. Perhaps a relative’s or a friend’s.”
“The more I think about it, the more I like my chances best with you. You guys are scary and dangerous, but you’ve got some kind of hang-up about hurting teens. Hey, are you some sort of snake-man?”
I bristled. “I most certainly am not.”
“I don’t mean any offense. It’s just your eyes…. They’re fine now, but when you attacked the guards, they looked like a snake’s.”
“Lord Arioch is a dragon,” Tyrin said, his tone chiding. “You would be wise to show him the appropriate respect.”
“A dragon?” The boy’s eyes grew comically wide. “With wings and everything?”
Alarmed, I asked, “Have you ever seen a dragon without wings?”
“No. But I’ve never seen a dragon with wings, either.”
Tyrin smirked at that, but then he sobered. “Dragons have always been rare. Even before the war.”
“How do I know you won’t eat me?” the boy asked.
I snorted. “I prefer my meat expertly seasoned and cooked, but my chefs would never prepare a human for me.”
“You have chefs?”
“My manor is fully staffed.”
“You talk weird.”
I fought a smile. “As do you.”
His gaze snapped to Tyrin, and then back to me. “If I agree to come with you, what happens if I change my mind and want to leave?”
“You are no captive. You may leave us whenever you see fit. However, we must make haste and leave this place before the soldiers free themselves.”
“I am ready for your fingerprint, m’lord,” Tyrin said.
I strode to the terminal and accepted the portal fatigue charge.
“What is your name?” Tyrin asked.
The boy swallowed the last of his rasher. “Jameson. Jameson Crawford.”
“Can you provide a fingerprint?” Tyrin asked. “Or does your touch destroy electronics?”
Jameson removed his glove. “I don’t have enough juice to zap a fly. I’m drained. Like I was when they brought me here.”
The numerous questions flooding my mind would have to wait until we reached safety. Tyrin helped Jameson accept the charge, and a small crackle of electricity sparked when he touched the screen, but it beeped and ejected a ticket.
I teleported first.
My vision blurred and then reformed around unfamiliar surroundings. This station was cleaner, more modern, and mercifully more populated. I reached for the artifact’s thread and exhaled. Closer. Much closer.
Wardens ushered me off the platform and directed me toward my possessions, but I held my ground, awaiting the others.
Jameson materialized a moment later. He managed to remain upright for precisely one heartbeat before his eyes rolled back and his legs buckled.
The nearest warden sighed as though the unconscious child was a personal inconvenience, and the look I gave him must have communicated my thoughts on the matter, because he took a swift step backward.
I mounted the platform and gathered the boy, mindful of his covered hands. He weighed almost nothing.
Tyrin materialized shortly after I moved Jameson, swaying a step. He steadied himself and then joined us. “Thank the Allfather it will only last four hours this time,” he grumbled.
Regardless, adrenaline pumped through my veins, and my muscles tensed.
Al Mukalla was no wasteland. The scents and sounds of the busy city, along with its many threats, overwhelmed my exhausted senses.
I raised my mental shields and blocked out the background, narrowing my focus to my immediate surroundings.
“We need to find shelter,” I said to Tyrin, keeping my voice low.
“Indeed, m’lord. Let me see what I can do.”
With Jameson asleep over my shoulder, we retrieved our belongings and headed for the exit. The warden stationed at the door had the body of a human, yet he watched our approach with tar pits for eyes.
Tyrin stopped in front of the warden. “Excuse me. Will you please point me to the nearest inn?”
I shifted Jameson’s weight, and the boy’s head lolled against my shoulder.
The warden’s gaze swept over Jameson—taking in the boy’s worrisomely blue feet, the back of his bloody shirt, and the bruise on his exposed cheek—before locking with mine. “Did you do that to the child?”
“No,” Tyrin blurted, leaping to my defense. “He would never—”
My húskarl needed not to defend me further, because Jameson stirred, then tapped me on the back and said, “Let me down.”
I cautiously lowered him to his bare feet. Sweat beaded across his brow from the exertion of standing on his own two feet, yet he met the warden’s fathomless gaze with nary a flinch when he announced, “They didn’t do this. They rescued me from the wankers that did.”
The warden studied each of us in turn before finally answering. “The Peace Council maintains lodging across the south bridge and on the right.” He opened the door, letting in a blast of sandy humid heat as he pointed us in the right direction. “Look for the green door with the Council seal.”
We thanked him and shuffled out the door.
The morning sun beat down mercilessly, even though high-rises blocked most of its glare, casting shadows across the street.
Sand particles coated every visible surface and hung suspended in the air, turning each breath intolerable.
Within moments, they collected in the corners of my eyes and settled on my clothes.
Jameson coughed beside me, covering his mouth with a mitten-covered hand as he limped along. “Why’s there so much sand in the air?”
“We must have just missed a storm,” Tyrin replied.
The boy moved as though his own skeleton was conspiring against him, each step a battle between will and failing muscle.
I wanted to carry him. Every protective instinct demanded it.
But this city set my scales prickling beneath my skin, and instincts of a different kind demanded I keep my hands free and my senses sharp.
The sand was only one assault on my nostrils.
Beneath the grit, the humid air carried a dense wall of spice.
Cumin, cardamom, and something sharp and unfamiliar lodged in my sinuses and threatened to provoke an undignified sneeze.
I pressed my knuckles against my nose and resorted to breathing through my mouth, a solution that merely exchanged one unpleasant sensation for another.
Colorful scarves hung from a merchant cart directly in front of the bridge.
We approached, passing through a ward that kept the air clean and the merchandise sand-free.
I greedily breathed in the fresh air and purchased three sturdy cotton shemaghs, haggling extensively over the price—at Tyrin’s insistence—lest I be taken for a fool.
I studied what appeared to be their version of a scarf, wondering how it could possibly protect us from the sand. However when the merchant showed us how to properly don them and sent us on our way, I was surprised at how well the covering performed.