Petran picked up his pace. Someone must be in trouble. There! A figure knelt on the sand near the trees, arms wrapped around itself, swaying back and forth, wracked by uncontrollable sobs.
Petran stopped a few feet away from the miserable creature.
Anguished eyes looked up at him, as blue as the skies overhead. Pain such as Petran had never seen before stared out at him from those haunted eyes.
A man. No, a boy, really, possibly Petran’s age. Dressed in tattered, blackened rags. Soot marred his cheek, and his hair bore the marks of fire.
Petran drew closer, the scent of scorch hitting his nose.
The boy winced… and fell over.
“Hey!” Petran crashed to his knees on the wet sand. “Hey, boy.” He shook the boy and yanked back his hand, ripping a piece of frayed shirt in the process. Angry reddened flesh, like half-healed wounds, covered the boy’s neck and shoulder. Burns. Bad ones. Here and there purple bruises mottled the exposed skin.
Petran had seen similar burns after a battle, heard moans of pain, seen horrible scars later—if the victim survived the ordeal.
Without treatment, these wounds could prove lethal.
He struggled to lift the injured boy, half carrying, half dragging him over the sand, stopping by his fishing spot to retrieve his catch and provide a reason for being gone. With any luck, the crew would still be in the local village, disposing of illicit cargo.
He could allow no witnesses to the stowaway he’d bring on board. The pirates didn’t welcome strangers and weren’t too kind to those with no defense or value. The boy needed help. And to get away from this place.
Two things Petran could provide.
Now to get the poor unfortunate aboard.
A splash hit his nose. He wiped the drop away. Rain. Dark, low-hanging clouds. What? The sky had been nearly cloudless. Now rain?
Rain would drive the crew below decks or to seek refuge in a tavern if still on shore.
The skies opened. Torrential rain washed the scent of fire away but soaked the stranger’s rags, making him even heavier. Yet, Petran preferred carrying extra weight to finding his path barred.
Step by step, he labored. At last, they reached theSeabird. He hid his burden behind a cask on the dock and peered upward. No one was visible on deck. Footsteps sounded down the gangway.
A raw-boned woman ambled past, not even looking his way.
“Rymon,” Petran called, stepping out to meet the quartermaster. “Where is everyone?”
“Your father decided to wait until dawn to leave due to the storm. The crew are enjoying a night in an inn. Hurry, or they’ll save you no ale.” TheSeabird’smost dangerous fighter winked, then dashed down the docks toward the village.
Strange, indeed. Petran’s father never left the ship unattended, so there must be crew about, but out of sight.
All the better for Petran. When luck graced him with its presence, he’d be a fool to refuse the offer. He retraced his steps and helped the boy to his feet. This time, the burned youth managed to help, taking a few faltering steps. He didn’t hesitate or ask where they went. His only sounds were a few grunts when Petran jostled him.
“I’m sorry,” Petran repeated every few moments. Given his injuries, the boy must be in excruciating agony. A small eternity later, Petran gently laid the boy down on his own bunk, away from the crew in the far back of the cargo hold. No raiders would find the hidden cabin, allowing Petran to escape battles.
At least, that was the captain’s plan.
“You’re in my cabin,” Petran said. “You’re safe now.”
Those pain-filled blue eyes stared upward. “Thank you,” came out on a whisper.
The storm gave Petran time enough to drop his catch off in the galley and stock his cabin with the supplies necessary for their journey to the next port. He’d helped the ship’s cook, Smutje, often enough to treat the men after a skirmish to have learned basic healing skills. Smutje liked when Petran helped. Claimed the men healed faster.
Nonsense. He just wanted to keep Petran away from the fighting. Probably at Da’s urging.
The boy winced but remained quiet as Petran cleaned and smoothed salve over healing burns, bruises, and a few minor cuts. How had the boy been injured? Life among pirates taught not to ask too many questions.
Petran hummed as he worked, a tune he couldn’t remember learning. At last, wounds treated, and with a few sips of broth in his belly, Petran’s foundling slept.
