That explained his newfound skill.
When he edged into Maazini’s cave, Ma was waiting.
Maazini moved to the cave mouth to block them from view as Ma pulled out a small vial that shone in the dark, quickly shrouding it in cloth so only a sliver of light shone on the boy’s wounds.
She inhaled sharply. “Place him face down on my blanket,” she whispered, laying her tiny light on the floor and rummaging in her healer’s pouch.
Tomaaz sank to his knees, still cradling the boy. The lad clung to him, casting fearful glances at Maazini.
“It’s all right, he’s my friend,” Tomaaz whispered in his ear. “He’ll protect you from tharuks.”
The boy went limp in his arms. Tomaaz placed him on the blanket and tousled his hair.
He kissed Ma on the cheek.
“Go,” she whispered. “Get back before they miss you.”
§
A face swam into focus. Blonde hair. Green eyes.
“Ezaara?” Hans asked.
A cool hand touched his forehead. “Pa, you’re awake.”
Hans tried to sit up. Shards, his limbs ached something fierce, and his chest was sore.
Ezaara pushed him back down. “Relax. It’s going to take time to recover.”
“Ezaara.” His voice came out croaky. She passed him a cup of water, and he drank. Then she hugged him, avoiding the wound in his chest.
He winced anyway. “Sorry, still a bit sore.”
“Of course you are.” Her brow tightened.
In all his years of using dragon sight, he’d never seen anything as welcome as her sitting here, looking every bit a dragon rider. Actually, the Queen’s Rider. “So, how are you finding Dragons’ Hold?”
“A lot has happened since I got here. I’ll fill you in later. But first, Lovina says Ma and Tomaaz are in Death Valley.” Her voice was tight with concern.
Hans nodded. “They are.” He spared Ezaara the details: the haggard expression on Marlies’ face and how gaunt Tomaaz had looked after only a few days. “How long have I been here?” His memory was hazy. He’d floated in and out of consciousness.
“Since yesterday afternoon. You slept all night.”
Well, not all night—he’d woken to talk to Tomaaz. He tried to gauge what time of the day it was from light filtering in through an unshuttered hole in the rock face, and failed. “How late is it now? I have to contact Tomaaz at sunset.”
“A couple of hours until then. Pa, you’re going back, aren’t you? To Death Valley.”
He nodded and squeezed her hand. “I have to bring your mother and Tomaaz home.”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine. I—” He sighed at her stubborn expression. “Yes, it will be dangerous. But I’m going as soon as I’m able. Tomorrow.”
“Good,” she said, “then, you won’t object to me healing your chest with piaua juice.”
“Piaua? But that’s only for grievous injuries! Marlies would skin me alive for using it on a non-fatal wound.”
“You’ll be facing hundreds of tharuks. Our entire family is depending on you and you can’t even shoot an arrow properly with that hole in your muscle.” Ezaara folded her arms. “I’m not having you go back there to get shot again. Or worse.”
It was true. He drew his bowstring with his left arm. His wound would hamper him. He hesitated.
She pounced. “Great, I knew you’d agree.” As quick as a hare, she tugged his bandage open, and uncorked a vial of pale green piaua juice. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “You’re fine with this, aren’t you? I mean, you want the best possible chance of saving our family, don’t you, Pa?”
Hans sighed. “When you put it like that … yes. Go ahead.” He held his shirt open.
“This won’t hurt a bit.”
He snorted. “That’s not what Marlies says.”
Ezaara flashed a feral grin. “It may burn a little.”
He burst out laughing. “Ow, my chest hurts when I laugh!”
Tharuk Crackdown
The door of the sleeping hut flew open, bashing the wall. Tomaaz jerked awake, bone-weary.
568 and Burnt Face marched into the room. “You check the small male. I’ll wake the others,” 568 said, hefting a stick as thick as Tomaaz’s bicep. It strode among the pallets, whacking slaves.
Their yelping woke the rest.
Burnt Face stomped about the room, muttering, “Skinny rat must be somewhere.”
He was looking for the boy, and it was obvious the lad was missing. His blanket was hanging off the end of his bloodstained pallet.
Burnt Face halted by the mattress, sniffing at the blood. Tomaaz’s brow prickled with sweat. He fought not to shiver; to look dull-witted and numlocked.
“Hey!” Burnt Face called. “Small one is gone.” His head swiveled and his nose twitched. “Get a tracker.”
Shards!
“Not now. Get these slaves to work,” 568 snarled. “Or Zens will reward you.”
“N-no. N-not a reward.” The tharuk’s scar spasmed.
It would’ve been funny if Burnt Face hadn’t looked so petrified. Zens had created these monsters, but they were terrified of him.
“Go on.” 568 waved his stick at Burnt Face. “Feed them. Get them to work. I send tracker to flesh pile for the boy.”
Burnt Face herded the slaves out of the hut, tossing chunks of hard bread after them. The slaves scrabbled in the dirt to retrieve the tough crusts. It was the strongest emotion Tomaaz had seen from them, apart from the mother throwing herself into the sewage canal. He shuddered.
Sharp claws poked through the back of his jerkin. “Shivering? Got a chill?” Burnt Face thrust his snout over Tomaaz’s shoulder.
His stomach churned at the beast’s rat-laden breath. Tomaaz lunged among the slaves to snatch bread. He sat on his haunches in the crowd, gnawing at the hard chunk until Burnt Face looked away.
That was close. He had to keep his emotions locked away until they left this hell.
Tomaaz checked his fingernails. A faint pink tinge was showing on the edge of one nail. His dragon’s
