Dark Djinn (The Darkness of Djinn Book 1)

by Tia Reed

  The words were inconsequential. Ahkdul’s blood was already stirring with desire. “And does this boy reside here?”

  “In Teqrin, with his mother, my lord.”

  “He is decent to look upon. I will give you ten thulek for him.”

  Rasheed had the gall to purse his lips. “My lord, he is my only son. And he is young yet to be indentured. His mother would weep herself into the grave if he did not return.”

  “You ingrate. I offer you five times what he is worth.”

  The harsh words scared the child into huddling against his father. A plump raindrop fell upon his cheek, glistening with promise.

  “I don’t…I mean…” Deq Mekresh took a deep breath and dared look him in the eye. “I cannot. Sons are priceless in the eyes of their fathers, as you surely know, my lord. I measure my worth by the –”

  The upstart forgot to whom he spoke. “I am not a father,” Ahkdul interrupted. His mouth twisted. “Nor do I have one who is overly fond of me. But I will lavish this child with affection, of that you can be sure.” The boy was indeed fair of face, with solemn brown eyes he would enjoy kissing.

  Rasheed deq Mekresh appeared stricken. “My lord, is there not an orphan you could take to your service?” He gripped the child’s arm too tight. A bruise would blemish the perfect flesh, yet the child sensed danger and forbore to complain. That, thought Ahkdul, was encouraging.

  “Enough!” Ahkdul was well aware innuendo preceded him. Well it was a subject’s duty to satisfy his lord’s every whim, and a soldier’s doubly so. “Twelve thulek.” He gestured to a guard, who advanced on the pair. “And that generous sum erases all claim of debt. The boy belongs to me.”

  The boy buried his face in his father’s stomach. Ignoring the raindrops plopping on their heads, deq Mekresh smoothed the boy’s hair. The fear showing in the whites of his eyes was unbecoming of a soldier. “I did not…I was not asking for more coin. I beg you!”

  “It is just as well, or I would have left you with none. Ten thulek then. We are agreed.”

  Deq Mekresh enclosed his son in a tight hug. The guard took the boy’s arm and pulled.

  “No,” the child said, struggling to keep hold of his father’s kurta.

  “For the love of Vae’oenka, allow me time to say goodbye.”

  “Be done, man. I have business in Terlaan, and Captain Treme is upset by the delay. The Nertese are not known for their patience.”

  The stubborn soldier refused to release the boy. Deq Mekresh’s eyes pleaded with the weathered captain, but Treme remained impassive, Lord Hudassan’s man to the last. Ahkdul gestured to Kahlmed, who set the tip of his blade towards Rasheed’s eye.

  “You gain nothing by forfeiting your life. I’ll wager your wench is young enough to whelp a dozen more brats. If this one pleases me, I may even honour your family with another apprenticeship in a few years.” Ahkdul smirked as Rasheed went down on a knee, turned his mouth to the clinging boy’s ear, and whispered his farewells. It was touching really, if one believed in the bond between family. In any case, Ahkdul intended to make sure the lad did not miss his father’s cuddles. The thunder had drowned the soldier’s words, but he would discover later what the man had said. He nodded at Kahlmed, who slipped his sword along the side of the soldier’s face, a warning that drew a thin line of blood. Rasheed deq Mekresh glared at the soldier, but delayed rising long enough for Ahkdul to understand the scratch was a mere annoyance. He released his son with a kiss on the forehead. Lord Hudassan would really need to speak to Captain Subhi of the Third Watchtower. His second’s behaviour bordered on insubordination.

  “Come here,” Ahkdul said.

  Kahlmed had to drag the boy over. He reached for his father but did not call out. Ahkdul was well pleased. The quiet ones always served him best. Delighting in the smoothness of the boy’s skin, he ran the back of a finger from temple to chin while another guard counted out the coin. Rasheed spat to one side, but pocketed it all the same. Ahkdul’s mouth twitched. No child could compete with wealth far beyond what his parent would earn in a lifetime. Still, he should not have allowed the doting father to shadow them all the way back to the derelict wharf where shrieking gulls swooped on trodden crumbs, and rats gnawed the corners of waterlogged sacks so they could scamper in and out of the spilling grain. The boy kept looking over his shoulder although Kahlmed’s brawny hand clamped upon his wrist, forcing him to trot the creaking planks. When he saw the Tenacity looming in the choppy waters, he dug in his heels and screamed. It was not a scene Ahkdul cared to have witnessed. He should have ordered the rough labourers tossing sacks or lugging crates executed for their whistles and jeers. Since his retinue of eight stood no chance against the hundred, he would have to convince Lord Hudassan, his dear, despising father, to send the Verdaani army to do the job.

  “Quiet, boy.” With a callous laugh, Kahlmed hefted the boy over his shoulder, stepped past a rotting post stained with bird droppings, and boarded their rocking rowboat. Ahkdul ran a tongue over his lips. The curve of that tender body kindled a delicious arousal. As Treme ordered the crew to hoist the sails, he clamped his hands on the boy’s stiff shoulders. Rasheed’s eyes, he noted with a curl of his lip, were moist. What manner of soldier was he? Subhi required more than a lecture. He needed discipline. Only a poor captain would allow his troops to soften so.

  Through the rumbles of thunder escorting the galley from the harbour, the sniffling boy remained at the bulwark, hands clamped on the gunwale, watching his father dwindle to a speck. Tears ran down his face long after gulls ceased to bob on the waves and land faded to a hazy line. Ahkdul let him be, practising swordplay with his men and counting the hours until the full moons cast their feverish glow. When green Dindarin was halfway to the zenith, when the sea had calmed to an oily sheen, he could bear the fire in his blood no longer.

  “Come. You will learn to serve me,” he said.

  The child was nestled against the bulwark. He had eaten nothing but the salty spray, watching each step of their drills with those alert, attractive eyes. When he did not move, Ahkdul entered his cabin. The thick carpet on the polished floor was the only concession to luxury in this aging vessel. However the crew might snicker behind his back, the spicy perfume he splashed around was a necessity to cover the pervading stink of gutted fish and rotten seaweed. He only had time to lock his sword in his oak coffer before Kahlmed picked the child up by the arms and carried him in, pulling the splintering door shut behind him as he departed.

  “What’s your name?” Ahkdul asked.

  Wary eyes watched him without answer.

  “Would you prefer I call you Slave?”

  “My name’s Timak.”

  “Well Timak, you are mine until I tire of you, when you will be put to work in the porrin fields, a harsh, unforgiving occupation that will send you to an early grave. Learn your tasks well and you can live in comfort a good many years.” He stepped up to the boy and stroked his cheek. “Perhaps, for the rest of your life.”

  Timak flinched at his touch. Ahkdul licked his lips. “You must have bruises. You were handled poorly, by your father and the guard.”

  Timak’s eyes flashed. “My father wanted to keep me.”

  Good, thought Ahkdul. There is some character there to spice the relationship. “He took the money, Timak. I did not abduct you. He sold you to me.”

  The boy shifted uncertainly.

  “Sit on the bed and remove your kurta. I will tend to those tender bruises.”

  Timak backed against the door, one hand rubbing his other arm.

  “Do you need Kahlmed to help you? He is experienced with disobedient children, but none too gentle with those who displease me.”

  Timak locked eyes with him. Ahkdul felt a stirring in his loins.

  “I have only to call. He is right outside that door.”

  The boy sidled to the bed, eyes never leaving Ahkdul’s face. Ahkdul stood over him, so close he could smell honey-sweetened tea on the boy’s breath. The gentlest
he intended to be, he stroked a soft cheek.

  “Come now. You must learn to do as I say. It will go badly for your father if you do not.”

  The boy sat. Slowly, he removed his kurta, and held it to his lap, rubbing it nervously over his shalvar. His upper arms were red. He had, Ahkdul noticed with a tremor, begun trembling. Ahkdul took the kurta and pulled. Timak refused to let go.

  Ahkdul crossed to the simple table and poured a little water into a metal mug. It would not do to have the boy scream tonight. Not in the confines of this cursed ship when they were yet so close to shore. He removed a small paper packet from the top drawer of a bolted chest, and deposited two shakes of the red powder within into the mug. Swirling the contents until it had dissolved, he considered imbibing the drug himself. Later perhaps. This first caress would be that much sweeter if he revelled in each exquisite sensation. If he remembered every touch. Carefully, he rewrapped and replaced the porrin powder, careful to lock the chest.

  “Here,” he said, holding the cup to Timak’s lips and dispensing two sips. “This will help.” He set the mug on the chest of drawers and removed his kurta. The child’s pupils had already dilated, his trembling eased. Ahkdul placed the boy’s kurta aside and pushed him down.

  * * *

  Timak stared without seeing at the ceiling. He was aware of only two things: his body throbbed inside and out, and the motion of the boat was making him queasy. Gradually he became aware of a third: Lord Ahkdul’s bare limbs sprawled across his own. His tormentor’s head was turned towards him. He could feel hot breath on his cheek.

  His papa had known what horror lay in store for him. Those whispered parting words would remain forever in his mind. Our lord will try to hurt you, little soldier. Escape if you can, but don’t run home. I will not stop looking until you are safe in my arms again. Remember that. If you remember one thing, remember that. Timak choked back a sob. His papa had allowed Ahkdul to take him. His papa, best swordsman in the Three Realms, had not fought for him. His mind played out the fateful ambush once, thrice, ten times. At the last, his father performed the legendary feats of bravery they enacted at play, besting the terrifying, scarred beast of a guard and the despicable, hideous lord without breaking a sweat.

  It was cold comfort. Ahkdul’s armed guards lurked in the background of every twisted scene. Deep down, in his heart of hearts, he knew Papa would have perished if he had so much as hinted at the slightest threat. Knowing didn’t make him feel any less abandoned.

  Vae’oenka spare him. Before today, he had not imagined a body could endure such agony. He tried to recall the comfort of his father’s arms, but the memory of that last kiss made him shudder. All he could think of was his lord’s lips moistening his body. His stomach heaved. He rolled out of bed and vomited a puddle of bile onto the carpet. The bitter stench made him retch.

  So much pain.

  As if in sympathy, timbers creaked.

  Unbearable pain.

  The mast groaned.

  More pain than the time he had broken his arm when he flew off a horse. The physic had prescribed porrin to dull the edge of it. The drug had lulled him to drowsy oblivion. Today, Lord Ahkdul had forced him to ingest the powdered seed. It had deadened his nerves for a time. He wished it had not worn off before the torture was complete. Feeling like filth, Timak dragged himself up. The mug rested on the chest, the dregs of the liquid enticing and bright. He drained it, and slumped against the carved wood, knees pulled tight to his body, waiting for sweet release.

  It came soon, eventually, too late. The room spun about him and his mind drifted free of his battered self, looked down at the broken body huddled on the floor, and the beefy grown up sprawled under the light covers. The lord’s prominent brow, large nose and thick lips seemed cruel even in sleep.

  Escape if you can. The words tumbled through his mind. Papa had not counted on him sailing on a ship, with water lapping all around and Vae’omar knew how many silver-grey sawtooths patrolling the water.

  “Escape if you can.” The words sounded muted, like the roar of Djinn Rage Canyon from inside his father’s watchtower.

  “I can’t,” Timak whispered. The voice needed to stop calling. He stretched an arm towards the porthole, imagined floating along Dindarin’s green beams, free from Lord Ahkdul’s whims.

  “Where’s he to go? Vae’omar’s watery domain?”

  “Oh, but I want him for my own. Escape. Escape.”

  Two voices. Were they Daesoa and Dindarin? Outside the portal, the green moon’s harsh light defined every pitiless line on Lord Ahkdul’s face. If only he could see small Daesoa’s soft yellow glow.

  “He’s damaged. Choose another.” The male voice. An insensitive tone.

  “That’s exactly why I want him. Oh, do escape. Escape if you can.” This voice was younger, girlish.

  “Who’s there?” Timak whispered.

  “Can he hear us?” the female voice asked.

  “Don’t be absurd. No mortal can,” her companion replied. “He’s intoxicated on porrin. Doesn’t know up from down.”

  Escape if you can.

  “Papa?”

  Timak padded to the door and cracked it open. A breeze washed over the empty deck, freshening the stale, sweat-soaked cabin. He slipped outside. A figure worked on the tiller, and another stared over the starboard side. The moonbeams still beckoned, insistent, irresistible. Timak walked to the bulwark and climbed onto the gunwale. He could see Daesoa now, throwing him light like a lifeline. He would fly away from his torment, float among their beams.

  “No. He can’t. He’ll drown.” The girlish voice sounded upset. Timak couldn’t think why.

  “You wanted him to escape,” the mean male said.

  He stretched up, stood on tiptoe. He had only to lean and he would fly. For the briefest instant his body was surrounded by air. Then he thumped to the deck as a rough pair of hands dumped him back into captivity. A large boot landed on his chest, and Kahlmed’s scary face bore down on him.

  “Not leaving so soon?” Kahlmed inquired.

  “Help me.”

  “I’ll help you back to my lord’s bed,” Kahlmed said.

  Timak extended an arm to Daesoa. “Help me.”

  “He can hear us,” the female voice said.

  “Impossible,” her male companion replied.

  “Please help.” Serene Daesoa waited at his fingertips, though her pretty yellow light eluded his grasp. Below her, green Dindarin brushed the horizon.

  “But he can,” the invisible girl said.

  Kahlmed frowned at Ahkdul, who had appeared on deck in nothing more than a loincloth. “I don’t think he’s talking to me.”

  “He had porrin. Ignore him. The drug has stolen his wit.”

  Strange, how the lord’s words were sharp. Not at all like the muffled buzz Timak remembered of his last porrin daze. He had dozed in bed for a full day after a single dose for his broken arm. He would rather it were that. Too many of the motley crew had found tasks in the vicinity, counting him a diversion from the inky monotony of the silent ocean. Their sniggers sweated him cold.

  “Daesoa, please help,” he whispered, opening and closing his hand along her beam.

  The twist of the boot over his ribs made him yelp. Kahlmed gave a nasty laugh. “The moon. The git’s talking to the moon.”

  “Can you see us?” The soft voice was excited.

  “No. Where are you?” Timak looked around. Wary faces stared down at him.

  “Right here. Right above the ship.”

  Timak shook his head.

  In the blink of an eye, the wind dropped. To a man, sailors and soldiers paused at their tasks. Real slow, several looked over their shoulders, peering into the night. In the lull, Kahlmed shuddered.

  “A still wind blows,” Captain Treme said, pressing forefingers and thumbs together in the warding sign. “Trim the sails and man the oars to boot. We’re away from this haunted spot with all speed.”

  “He’s cursed,” a sailor sa
id, copying Treme’s gesture. “Djinn-touched. Capt’n, he canna stay aboard the ship.”

  “Superstitious fool,” said Kahlmed, removing his boot from Timak’s chest. But the seasoned soldier backed away.

  “The boy’s Lord Ahkdul’s guest,” Treme said. “Now back ter work, the lot of yer.”

  There were grumblings amid the “aye-ayes” as the sailors returned to rigging and ropes.

  Timak lay on his back and listened. The voices had stopped.

  “You are mine, Timak,” Lord Ahkdul said, standing over him. “You please me too well for me to grant you release so soon.” Slowly, the corners of his mouth broke into a smile. It fell far short of his formidable grey eyes. “You,” Lord Ahkdul said, pointing at a sailor. “Tie him up.”

  The sailor leered at Timak with a mouth full of rotting teeth. Callused hands bound his wrists and threw the tether at Ahkdul. “He’s trussed real good, yer lordship. Only yer leave him on deck, there’s them as might take a fancy to ’is soft skin.”

  Kahlmed drew his sword. Timak closed his eyes, rolled against the bulwark, and curled up tight.

  “Easy now,” the sailor said. “There’s no ’arm in a joke. We knows that piece of flesh is fer the Master.”

  “And the Master is not yet finished with him this night.” Lord Ahkdul tugged Timak to his feet by the rope around his wrists. “You have grieved me, boy, and now you must make amends.”

  “No, please,” Timak begged, as Ahkdul led him back to the cabin like a goat for the slaughter.

  “He’s so frightened. We have to do something,” the young voice said.

  “For a damaged human flea?” the mean male said.

  “Take care, Yazmine. Our Court will not be pleased if you do something foolish,” said a third, a woman, and kind.

  They were barely inside when Lord Ahkdul dropped his loincloth.

  “I can’t bear it,” the voice called Yazmine said.

  “Come away, child,” the woman called.

  “No. No, I shall stay. He can hear me. I shall sing to him. Oh, I shall sing to you, little boy, through it all.”