MALLOS
The absolute last person Mallos wanted to deal with while his grandson was recovering from a near-death experience was Tsi, especially Tsi in a bad mood. When he connected with his mind, Mallos felt the weariness and irritation which so frequently plagued him since the ancient creature’s coming lurking in the Chairman’s mind. Ordinarily he would have tensed himself for the battle ahead, but something about the way Tristan was lying motionless on the bed had taken all of the fight out of him.
‘Mallos,’ Tsi’s voice sounded sharply in his mind, ‘I am not in the mood to deal with your joyriding and dereliction of duty today. I need you to go back to Earth right now and work on the European crisis.’
‘I’m staying here. Tristan’s been hurt.’
Tsi had gained popularity on his friendly and sympathetic nature, and Mallos had to believe that under any normal circumstances, the Chairman would have accepted this explanation and quietly left him to it. Battling the ancient creature had a profoundly negative effect on Tsi’s mood, however, and his temper was clearly stretched to breaking point. Mallos could feel an anger that wasn’t his own, throbbing like a raw wound.
‘Heal him quickly and go back then. For Kahl’s sake, one eleven year-old is not more important than the threat of war between two nations!’
‘He is when he’s my grandson.’
Before Tsi could respond, Mallos thrust him out of his mind and blocked all further contact. Sperantia, who had followed the whole conversation, glanced back at him but didn’t comment; he couldn’t tell whether she agreed with his decision or not. It didn’t matter. There wasn’t a force on Shaman or Earth which would get Mallos off this planet right now.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Arthur turned to look at him and spoke in soft tones. Venaraptors were unique to Shaman, as far as Mallos was aware, and he’d been fortunate enough not to have had any personal tanglings with them while he’d been living here. He wasn’t a great animal lover as a general rule, and the thought of his grandson facing three of the monsters alone was enough to incite a soft anger. Sperantia pressed her head against Tristan’s leg and crept a little further up the bed while Mallos moved around to join Arthur. The prince was awake, his face stricken with emotion, and his first word sent a flood of relief through his grandfather. If he could recognise him, then there wasn’t likely to be any brain damage. Mallos just managed to smile softly down at him, but it faded swiftly away when he tried to speak again.
“No one,” he confirmed, crouching down beside the bed so that he was at Tristan’s level. “You’re not in any trouble.”
He might have continued with a few reassuring comments about how everyone was just glad to have him home safe, when his divine pendant started to glow. The pendant was around his neck and underneath his shirt, so when it started to transmit the familiar yellow radiance it formed a golden, sun-shaped light under the black fabric. Someone had extremely inconvenient letter-sending timing. There was a brief but brilliant flash of light and a tightly rolled up scroll appeared in Mallos’ left hand, which he didn’t even bother glancing at before tossing it over his shoulder. Unless one of the originals was dying – and if that was the case, one of them should come in person to get him – then he didn’t want to know. Sperantia stood up, gave Arthur a long-suffering look, jumped off the bed and trotted over to where it had come to rest under the window. She lifted it up telekinetically, unrolled it and started skim-reading it quietly.
Mallos glanced back at Arthur with a questioning expression. Largely thanks to the requirements of his line of work, the king was particularly adept at reading faces, which complimented Mallos’ ability to communicate without words; he should be able to answer the unasked question. Tristan was clearly in a bad way. Normally Mallos did what he liked or thought was best without asking permission from anyone, but a certain respect for Arthur kept him in check. Besides which, Mallos might be Tristan’s grandfather, but Arthur was his father – the parent had the right to deny magical healing if he wanted to. Why anyone would want to was beyond Mallos, but mortals were full of all sorts of odd ideas.
On the other side of the room, Sperantia coughed meaningfully. “Mallos,” she said aloud, unable to send telepathic messages since he blocked his mind off, “I think you should read this.”
“I think you should throw it out of the window,” Mallos replied absently. “Did you defeat three raptors by yourself?” He added to Tristan, an undeniable note of pride in his voice.
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