Lindsay Buroker - Dark Currents

A disturbing thought, that. Had he already condemned himself to a dour ending down there? All because he had insisted on going down? He had never wanted to be a hero. It had been guilt over his failure at Vonsha’s home that had driven him to want to redeem himself, to do something useful for Amaranthe and the group. Though he surely did not want people in the city to die, he would not have chosen the role of savior-of martyr-for himself. He had just wanted a family, to matter to a small group of people. If he was truly dying, he would never have that again.

Tears formed behind his closed eyelids. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to swipe them away, but his knuckles rapped against the helmet’s unyielding faceplate.

“Idiot,” he grumbled.

The bump brought him back to the situation. Enough self-pity. He needed to finish the mission. Besides, Akstyr might know how to heal him. Yes. He held onto that thought.

He touched the orb with fingers quickly growing numb. The warmth emanating from the surface contrasted with the icy water. A perfect sphere, it felt smooth all over, like spun glass. It attached to the bowl via a metal stem four inches thick, which must line up with the pillar below.

If the orb was made from glass, maybe he could break it.

Books slid his sword free and tapped the device warily. It clinked like glass. He drew himself to his knees and gripped the hilt with both hands. The water drag would diminish the power of his blow, but he would do his best.

Careful not to place his air hose in the blade’s path, he lifted the sword over his shoulders and hammered down with all his strength. He expected a blast of energy to slam into him when the orb broke.

But it did not break. The sword clanged off, jarring his arms so badly he dropped it.

Books cursed, throwing in a few Mangdorian ones so the artifact would understand him. He slid his fingers over the orb. There was no doubt he had hit it, but not a crack or even a scratch marred its surface.

“New plan,” he told himself. He just had to figure out what it was.

The tingles ran up his arm all the way to his neck and spine now. More than ever, he sensed time running out.

Books shifted, and his knee bumped one of the nuts. He froze. He had a wrench along. If he could not destroy the orb, maybe he could disassemble it.

His deadened fingers fumbled at the clasp of the tool pouch. Annoyed, he switched to his left hand again. Even that side seemed less dexterous than it should be. He dropped the wrench three times while adjusting it. That stuff was going to reach his heart soon and…

He focused on the first nut. Eyes still shut against the light, he worked by feel. The nut thunked to the bottom of the bowl. He worked his way around the orb, awkwardly unfastening the rest.

Three quick, questioning tugs at the air hose interrupted him. Basilard wondering where he was probably. How long had he been down?

He tugged back, wishing he had taken the time to arrange signals, and returned to work. The last nut dropped. Books found the edge of the plate and levered his sword into the crease. Though heavy, the plate lifted on one side. He pushed it over with a grunt.

The light reddening the backs of his lids softened, and he opened an eye.

The orb still glowed like a sun, but it lay on its side, and the panel shielded Books. Tangled cords attached to the bottom led into a hole, the hollow core of the pillar. Gears rotated within, and he could only guess what the complex machinery in the shadows below did. But he did not need to learn how it worked.

He dragged the sword close and pressed it against one of the cords. He sliced through it, and a shocking buzz ran up his arm and clenched his chest. His muscles tensed involuntarily, and he dropped the sword. The orb flickered.

Scared but encouraged, he picked up his sword. He left the cords and jammed the blade between the teeth of the closest set of rotating gears. A displeased grinding issued from the core. He waited, hoping he would not have to cut more of the cords. The artifact started quaking.

He mulled over his sabotage. Maybe having his sword stuck in there would break the engine, maybe not.

Numbness plagued the entire right side of his body. He might as well ensure his efforts were irreversible. He slashed the sword through the remaining cords.

Power surged, hurling him backwards. He spun a somersault, hit his helmet on the lip of the bowl, and tumbled over the edge. He landed on his back in the pebbles. Light flashed several times, then disappeared. Blackness swallowed the bottom of the lake.

He lay, stunned. A drop of water splashed onto his nose.

With his mind dazed and befuddled, it took him a second to realize his helmet was leaking. He must have cracked the faceplate. He had to get up and climb out of the lake, but he could not move his limbs. He could scarcely breathe.

A white light appeared at the edge of Books’s vision.

“Now what?” he groaned.

He struggled to rise, and, when that failed, to roll over. His body would not cooperate. Water ran down his cheeks and pooled beneath his head.

The light drew closer, illuminating the artifact, which stood dark and skeletal. Though he feared death was approaching, Books drew satisfaction from the pathetic way the stem listed to one side.

A figure floated into his field of vision. The shaman. It had to be.

Protected by an iridescent bubble, the man hovered above the lake floor, his fists clenched, his pale face contorted with rage. Angry green eyes bored into Books. Then they shifted, focusing on something above his head.

The air hose. With a wave of his hand, the shaman could finish what the fish had started.

Did Basilard and the others know the man was down here? Surely not or they would be trying to help somehow. Books feared he was on his own.

He coughed, spitting water. It was dribbling in faster now and filled the helmet to his ears.

“Where is the assassin?” the shaman asked in Turgonian.

Books stared. He could have understood an accusation about the artifact or being a warmongering Turgonian, but a question about Sicarius?

The shaman floated over and grabbed the air hose. Again Books struggled to rise so he could die on his feet. His limbs would not move. He could not even feel them. Water reached the corners of his lips.

The shaman tied a knot in the hose and pulled it down, holding it before Books’s eyes.

“ Where is the assassin?”

Anger simmered within Books, and he hated that he had no power to lash out. He did not love Sicarius enough to die defending him, but he was dead either way.

“Hunting you,” he said, water leaking into his mouth.

The shaman sneered, and lifted a hand. As if someone cut off a switch, blackness swept over Books and awareness vanished.

P ain brought tears to Amaranthe’s eyes before she opened them. Her breath snagged, and she reached for her abdomen. Her fingers scraped against rough bandages, an act that brought more pain. She yanked her hand away. She tried to draw in a deep inhalation to calm herself, but that hurt too. As she opened her eyes and struggled to focus them, she settled for short, shallow breaths.

She lay on her back. Bare branches stretched below a gray sky promising rain. Daylight had come, though she could not guess whether it was morning or afternoon.

Something touched her cheek. She turned her head slowly since her neck, too, had complaints.

Sicarius sat cross-legged beside her. Relief flooded her at seeing him alive-and at being alive herself.

He lifted his hand, seemed not to know where to put it, and settled for resting it on her shoulder. Though the pain dampened her humor, she managed a smile. “I must look really bad…if you’re deigning to touch me.” It hurt to speak, and her voice rasped like sandpaper on wood.