Lindsay Buroker - Dark Currents

“Sit, please.” Amaranthe pointed to a cot. “I need to talk, and it’d be appreciated if you’d listen.”

“What polite outlaws.” Yara pulled away from Amaranthe and spun, hand hovering near her sword.

Sicarius appeared at the sergeant’s side. He did not draw a weapon, but his presence convinced Yara to lower her hands. She did not sit down.

Amaranthe nodded for Sicarius to guard the entrance, then met Yara’s eyes and launched into her spiel. “We weren’t fast enough to save the soldiers, but we got the makarovi out of the dam and over the falls. You may be able to verify that if some of the corpses get washed up on the shore downriver with, er, interestingly placed puncture wounds, as if from a giant hook.”

Skepticism twisted Yara’s face, but Amaranthe hurried on before she could interrupt. “Also, my man, Books-Marl Mugdildor-single-handedly deactivated the contraption tainting the water. He’s a good person who doesn’t deserve a bounty on his head. I doubt the device left inside the dam on the pipe will be trouble without the main artifact, but, with the makarovi gone, it should be easier to destroy now. Books saved the city a lot of trouble. He deserves a pardon. And, if you’re later able to gather evidence that corroborates our story, we would appreciate it if you would inform any of your superiors or co-workers who might listen. Since the emperor is aware of you, a note sent to his office would also be appreciated.”

“Oh, really?” Yara jammed her fists against her hips. “Perhaps I could arrange a parade for you as well. Or commission a statue that we could put on display at the entrance to the pass? No, better, a giant carving of your team’s faces in the side of the mountain. How would that be?”

Amaranthe almost quipped that Maldynado would love Yara forever if she could arrange the mountain carving, but she suspected they did not have much time before someone returned to the tent.

“We need to know where the shaman’s hideout is,” she said. “He has Books.”

Her lack of response to the sarcastic tirade deflated the sergeant. Yara’s hands lowered, though she still glowered.

“Please,” Amaranthe said. “If you hate me and you hate Sicarius, fine, but Books has done nothing to harm the enforcers or the empire. The only one with reason to hate him is the one holding him prisoner, doing ancestors only know what to him. Books risked his life to destroy that artifact. To help the city and make your job easier.”

Yara sighed. “The northern-most of the abandoned Kaker Mines. Base of the mountains.”

“Thank you.” Amaranthe nodded. Time to play her last tile. “The shaman’s artifact is destroyed, but he’s not done attacking the city. He believes the empire responsible for the slaying of the Mangdorian royal family years ago, and he’ll not stop until he’s exacted revenge.” She could not yet know how much of that was true, but she had to worry the soldiers if she wanted them to help.

“We didn’t have anything to do with that.” Yara frowned at Amaranthe, then considered Sicarius, and her frown deepened. “Did we?”

Amaranthe had not meant to implicate Sicarius, and she had to smother a wince at the quickness with which Yara put together the pieces. She imagined his eyes boring into the back of her head. Oh, well. It was not as if he could have stuffed this secret back into the Imperial Intelligence files to lock it away; too many people already knew.

“It’s what the Mangdorians believe,” Amaranthe said. “That’s all that matters. If I were you, I’d make sure these soldiers get to those mines before it’s too late.”

“If you were me,” Yara said, “you never would have betrayed the city and killed your co-workers.”

Amaranthe gritted her teeth. She wanted to issue a biting retort, but if there was any hope whatsoever of Yara acting on these words, Amaranthe dared not irritate her more. “Don’t make the mistakes I did then. Warn the soldiers. Protect the city.”

She strode out, trusting Sicarius to guard her back.

B ooks woke with a gasp, escaping some nightmare where he was falling-and suffocating. He lay on his back with cold darkness enveloping him. He blinked, trying to make out shapes, but his eyes failed to penetrate the blackness.

Memories hiccupped into his thoughts: the lake, the shaman, the artifact. He was alive, but was he truly in the dark or had he gone blind? Fear chilled him further. Maybe he had worked in the artifact’s blaze for too long.

“Easy,” he told himself. No panicking. Especially considering the numbness that had taken over his body in the lake was gone. “Definitely a positive development,” he muttered.

Either the shaman had healed him or the effects had worn off. The details did not matter. Figuring out where he was and getting back to the others-that mattered.

Cold seeped into his back from a rough, uneven floor. Stone. He rolled to his knees and landed in a puddle. A quick pat-down informed him the helmet and his tools were gone, though he still wore the diving suit.

He explored further. On three sides, dirt and rock walls rose to meet a low dirt and rock ceiling. Faint reverberations coursed through the stone, as if machinery labored somewhere in his underground prison. A different texture comprised the fourth wall of what he realized was his cell. Smooth and hard, it sent a buzz up his arm when he touched it. When he pressed harder, a stronger buzz coursed through him, making his hair stand on end. It reminded him of the power he had felt when he broke the artifact, and he decided not to risk hurling himself at it.

Books swept his foot along the floor, hoping to find something that could suffice as a latrine. No luck. A rusty bolt clattered across the ground. He found a few more scraps, but nothing larger than a hand-length scrap of twisted iron. It had a sharp edge, and he might have used it to file his way free if his captor had been considerate enough to put him in a cell with an iron gate instead of a magical barrier. He kept it on the chance the shaman might be foolish enough to come inside.

He pulled the top half of the diving suit down and was surprised when his movements did not bring pain. He pushed a sleeve up to check his wound. No fish tooth marks violated the flesh of his arm. The shaman had healed him. To what ends?

Books pushed the suit lower so he could relieve himself. At that moment, footsteps sounded to his left. A familiar white globe of light floated into view, illuminating a rough-hewn tunnel running past his cell. A rusty ore cart rail bisected the center of the passage.

He started to clamp things off, but a defiant thought curled his lip. Let the bastard find Books peeing on the floor of his hideout.

“What do you want me to do?” a female voice asked. Books’s eyes bulged. A familiar female voice.

“Just identify him.”

Two figures strode into sight behind the light globe. Books fumbled, hurrying to button himself in, though he feared she had already seen him in action. Heat flamed his cheeks. Why did these things happen to him? No villain would presume to walk in on Sicarius while he was peeing.

Vonsha and the shaman stopped before Books’s cell. She wore a dagger at her belt and carried a lantern. Her stance said “not a prisoner,” though it stung him to admit it. She did seem surprised to see him, so maybe she was not in on the larger scheme.

Something skittered along the floor behind them, a silver spider-shaped creature the size of a fist. A coin-sized circle on its front glowed red. As the spider passed below the shaman’s light, Books realized it was not a creature at all. The tiny “legs” moved mechanically, and metal, not skin, comprised the carapace. It disappeared into the darkness, heading deeper into the tunnel. Neither person facing Books reacted to it.