Dark Currents

by Lindsay Buroker

  “I see.” Amaranthe held back a smile. She wondered if Sicarius was close enough to hear. “Just to be clear, are you afraid to ask him to perform the duty when it’s his turn, or do you just not want to eat what he prepares?”

  “Afraid?” Maldynado scoffed.

  Akstyr snorted. Basilard flicked his hand in dismissal.

  Books lowered his voice and leaned toward Amaranthe. “The man doesn’t believe in seasonings. Not even salt!”

  With a morose head shake, Basilard stirred his beans and sausage and took a bite.

  A howl echoed from the woods.

  Amaranthe flinched, almost dropping her bowl. Answering yips and yowls stirred the hair on the back of her neck. The frogs fell silent. Basilard squinted into the gloom, head cocked.

  “Just coyotes,” Maldynado told Amaranthe. “You really haven’t been out in the forest much, have you?”

  “No,” she admitted, chagrinned her concern was so transparent.

  “Well, then, I reckon it’s my job to educate you on what we’ll likely encounter up here.”

  “Excuse me?” Books lifted a finger. “How much time have you, a dandy from the warrior caste, spent in the mountains? Weren’t your formative years spent in salons with tutors instructing you in the ways of arrogance and pomposity?”

  “Sure.” Maldynado winked. “But we went hunting on family vacations.”

  “Go ahead,” Amaranthe told Maldynado. “Keep in mind that I have read books, and I’m not going to be fooled if you try to convince me about made-up monsters that live up here.”

  Maldynado touched his chest, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t consider such a thing.”

  “Uh huh.”

  While Maldynado explained the local fauna, everyone else ate. Akstyr balanced his book in his lap while he spooned food into his mouth. The old tome was hand-written in a painstakingly clean script. Amaranthe wondered how the scribe who had penned it would feel about someone slopping beans onto the pages.

  “Are you listening?” Maldynado asked at one point, prodding Akstyr with his foot. “I’m divulging wisdom here.”

  “Huh?” Akstyr lifted his head.

  “You think your magic is going to help when a bear or ignak lizard tries to eat you?”

  “If I learn these healing techniques,” Akstyr said, “I can help if something tries to eat you.”

  “As if the forest creatures would be so rude.” Maldynado removed his hat, fluffed the peacock feather, swiped moisture off the brim, and replaced it at a rakish angle. “We’re still waiting for a demonstration of this great magic you’re learning.”

  “Science,” Akstyr said.

  “Either way, we haven’t seen you do anything except that trick where you made a flame. And you probably just had a match secreted in your hand for that.”

  “Did not.”

  “Prove it. Heal my hangnail.” Maldynado managed to display said nail while making a rude gesture.

  Akstyr put aside his book and food and lunged to his feet, fists clenched.

  “What’s the matter?” Maldynado also stood. He prodded Akstyr in the chest with a finger. “Afraid we’ll find out you’re a fraud?”

  Amaranthe set her meal down, not sure what Maldynado was trying to do or if she should stop it. Despite his size and his dueling skills, he was a laid-back sort, and she had never seen him pick a fight.

  Akstyr slapped the finger away and glowered at Maldynado, a challenge in his eyes. Though slender by comparison and inches shorter, he did not back down.

  When Maldynado lunged at him, Akstyr was ready. He jumped to the side, escaping a bear hug designed to force him to the ground. Maldynado reacted quickly, though, and hooked an arm around Akstyr’s waist. Akstyr pulled back, but tripped over a root. He went down, landing on his rump with a cry of pain, or maybe rage. Maldynado scrambled on top of him. Though usually an agile man, he launched a sloppy punch at Akstyr. The bout of fisticuffs resembled a drunken barroom brawl more than a serious scrap, judging by Maldynado anyway. Akstyr appeared confused, hurt, and angry.

  Books wore a bewildered are-their-brains-malfunctioning look. Basilard lifted his skillet, pointed at Maldynado, and raised his eyebrows.

  “No, don’t hit him on the head yet,” Amaranthe said, though if the scuffle went on much longer, she might do it herself.

  “Get off me, you—” Akstyr yelped.

  “Problem?” Sicarius asked from behind Amaranthe’s shoulder.

  His silent appearance caught her by surprise, as usual, and she jumped.

  “I think we’re about to find out if Akstyr truly has magic skills,” she said.

  “Science practitioners require concentration, which is not a state easily achieved when—”

  Akstyr cried out when a fist connected with his nose. Blood spattered his baggy shirt.

  More coyote yips and howls echoed through the forest, loud enough to drown out the grunts and thumps of the men’s fight. Maybe because she was an inexperienced city girl, the yowls sounded eerie to Amaranthe. It was spring. Shouldn’t those coyotes be off finding alluring opposite-sex coyotes to mate with instead of serenading the trees with those agitated shrieks?

  Maldynado rolled away and jumped to his feet, landing in a balanced ready stance. He held a hand out. “We’re done.”

  On his knees, hands balled into fists and chest heaving, Akstyr snarled at him. “We’re done? What addled ancestor jumped into your head and made you start that?” Blood streamed from his nose. He dashed it away with a sleeve.

  “A capricious one.” Maldynado grinned. Though mud smeared his fine clothing and smudged his jaw, he appeared unwounded. “I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity to practice healing.”

  Akstyr stared for a long moment before unclenching his fists. “You pummeled me into the ground because you wanted to help me?”

  “Yup. You’re a mess now,” Maldynado said. “Can you practice on yourself? Magic, I mean.” His lip quirked.

  “It’s easier on other people.” Akstyr sniffed and dabbed at his nose.

  “Oh.” Maldynado pushed up a sleeve. “Well, I scraped my elbow on that stump. Want to help it?”

  “Right now, I wouldn’t help you if you staggered up to me with a spear sticking out of your chest. I’m going to study. Don’t talk to me again tonight. Any of you.” Akstyr snatched his book and his blanket and stalked to the lorry.

  “How long before he realizes he won’t get much studying done without a light?” Books murmured.

  Amaranthe dug a lantern out of their gear, lit it, and took it to the lorry. Without a word, she set it down beside Akstyr, who was propped in the back, scowling at his book. She returned to the campfire.

  After a moment of sullen silence, Akstyr said, “Thanks.”

  “Interesting tactics,” Amaranthe told Maldynado.

  “Yes, I’m creative. Like a brilliant general inspiring his army to acts of greatness.”

  “Or acts of mutiny,” Books muttered.

  “Hush, or I’ll thump you up for Akstyr to practice on.”

  Sicarius crouched next to Amaranthe. “Something is off out there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He flicked his gaze toward the pond, where the frogs remained silent. Mist gathered amongst the ferns overreaching the filmy water.

  Amaranthe strapped on her short sword and a pistol, then followed him to the water’s edge to talk privately.

  “What is it?” She turned her back to the pond, preferring the view of the fire—and their lorry full of weapons. The coyotes and the mists had her thinking of stories her father had told her as a girl: tales of dark nights when people were haunted by deranged ancestor spirits resentful of their living kin.

  A twig snapped in the distance. Amaranthe’s hand brushed her pistol before she caught herself. Just some nocturnal animal hunting for grub. Besides, Sicarius stood an arm’s length away. He could probably kill anything in the forest barehanded. Though the way something in the woods arrested his attention st
ole some of the comfort his presence usually offered.

  “Sicarius?” she prompted.

  “I’m as much a city-dweller as you,” he said, “but I had complete wilderness-lore training, and I’ve spent many nights in forests.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” She shifted her weight. It was not like him to verbally defend his skills—there was no need.

  “The coyotes sound…off,” he said. “Those aren’t their usual cries.”

  “Off, how?”

  “Fearful, distressed. I’ve been scouting, and many animals are displaying signs of agitation.”

  “Maybe our presence is disturbing them,” Amaranthe said.

  The coyotes picked up their cries again, closer now. This time, she did let her hand come to rest on the butt of the pistol.

  “You stand first watch,” Sicarius said. “Let me sleep for a couple hours, then I’ll take the rest of the night.”

  “We do have six people here,” Amaranthe said.

  “Not that I trust to stay awake and alert.”

  He strode back into camp before she could respond. She understood doubting Akstyr or Maldynado, but she had faith Books and especially Basilard, who seemed more comfortable in the forest than any of them, would stand a responsible watch. She had more faith in them than herself. In the city, she knew what to expect. Out here, how did a novice tell the difference between the innocent activity of nocturnal creatures and more sinister sounds?

  Amaranthe poked around, looking for a good spot to stand watch. Meanwhile, Sicarius unloaded her repeating crossbow and handed rifles to the men.

  “Sleep with your boots on and your weapons close,” he told them.

  They accepted the rifles grimly. Sicarius applied poison to Amaranthe’s crossbow quarrels and headed over to where she had found her lookout position—a broad tree leaning over the pond. She could put her back against it and see in all directions except the water.

  “One of my school friends said you can tell a man likes you when he starts doing you little favors,” Amaranthe said. “I wonder if she would have counted the application of poison to one’s weapons.”

  Sicarius handed her the crossbow and pointed at her pistol. “You have powder and balls?”

  “Yes. No comment on favors, eh?”

  Sicarius handed her a cloak, threw a second around himself, and headed into the darkness. He skimmed up a tree with low branches and settled into a crook ten feet up.

  “You are an eccentric and unique individual, Sicarius,” she said under her breath.

  She tried to imagine him married and living in a house in the countryside with a passel of toddlers running around. The vision did not evolve far. If he ever married, it’d have to be to someone who would follow him into the woods and up a tree.

  With dinner done, the men settled in. Maldynado talked Basilard into a Strat-Tiles game, proclaiming his interest in educating him in the ways of Turgonian military strategy. And perhaps he would like to wager a few coins as well? Basilard proceeded to beat Maldynado three times.

  Once everyone was asleep, either in the tent or the back of the lorry, Amaranthe grew more aware of the night pressing in around her. The mist thickened, obscuring the surface of the pond, though occasional plops and splashes reminded her the water lay behind her. Now and then leaves rustled and branches rattled. Small creatures darting through the area, she assumed.

  The forest seemed busy for night, but she did not have enough experience to know what was normal. The coyotes’ agitated wails continued to assault her ears, but she found a calm detachment after a while. A distinct eeriness pervaded the area, but nothing had bothered them yet. No need to worry.

  A soft crunch came from her left, then another. Not like the passing of the earlier creatures, more like the soft malevolent step of something stalking closer.

  Now there was a reason to worry.

  Her grip tightened on the crossbow. She could shoot five rounds before reloading, plenty to handle a predator. She hoped.

  Amaranthe cocked an ear, listening for a repeat of the noise. Though her vision had adjusted to the darkness, deep shadows turned bushes into indistinct blobs and trees into barriers that could hide a coyote—or ten.

  Two green glowing spots appeared. Her breath caught. Eyes?

  She blinked, thinking her own straining eyes were playing tricks. The glowing points disappeared.

  “My imagination,” she breathed.

  Heartbeats thumped past, and the lights did not reappear. She realized she had been gaping in the same direction for a long time and quickly scanned the rest of the area. Lastly, she craned her neck to peer around her tree backrest.

  Across the pond, luminous green eyes stared at her.

  Amaranthe forced her breathing to remain steady and calm, though sweat dampened her palms. This time, when the eyes disappeared, they tilted before winking out, like a head ducking sideways.

  She fingered the trigger of her crossbow. Should she wake Sicarius? If this was some trick of her imagination, she would appear foolish in front of him. It shouldn’t, but his favorable opinion mattered more than most. Perhaps because he offered it to so few.

  She decided to find out what lurked out there before waking anyone. It was not as if she had no combat skills to call upon if the moment required it.

  Amaranthe strode to the lorry. The fire burned low with only scattered flames guttering amongst the red and gray coals. While keeping an eye toward the surrounding forest, she dug a few fire-starters out of the footlocker. Akstyr snoozed, so she took his lantern. The soft light showed no sign of the cuts and bruises he should have sported after Maldynado’s pummeling. Huh.

  A low growl emanated from the underbrush on the other side of the road. Amaranthe hooked the lantern over her forearm, so she could hold the crossbow in one hand and a fire-starter in the other. She lit the incendiary ball and lobbed it onto the road. It burned heartily, illuminating the wet concrete for several feet around. Nothing waited within the light’s influence.

  Trusting the fire-starter to burn for a few minutes, Amaranthe headed back to her spot by the tree. Another growl rumbled through the night. Ahead of her, green eyes glowed.

  She lit another fire-starter and lofted it. The eyes flashed away before her projectile hit the ground, but not before she glimpsed gray fur and four legs.

  “A wolf?” she whispered, thinking it too large for a coyote. Though it did not remind her of the killer soul construct she had faced in the city, she did not relax as the tiny bundle of flames smoldered on the wet leaf litter. What kind of wolf had glowing eyes? It had to be something magical, or—

  “What are you doing?” Sicarius’s voice floated from his tree perch.

  “The usual night-watch activities.” She tried to keep her tone light. Neither the creepy forest nor the creepy wolves were going to make her nervous, thank you very much. “Staying awake, counting trees, throwing fire at wolves with glowing eyes.”

  “Glowing what?”

  The ferns behind the smoking fire-starter shook. A wolf leaped across the burning ball and charged Amaranthe.

  She fired the crossbow, scarcely taking time to aim.

  The quarrel slammed into one of the beast’s eyes.

  Relieved by the accuracy of her reflexes, Amaranthe started to lower the weapon. But the wolf did not slow down. It sprinted at her, quarrel protruding from its eye.

  She dropped the lantern to pull the lever and chamber another bolt, but the beast moved too quickly. It leaped, fanged maw stretching open.

  Amaranthe hurled the crossbow at the wolf and dodged behind the tree. She tore her sword free.

  The beast landed, whirled, and sprang at her again. She whipped her blade across, slashing into its jugular.

  She ducked as the wolf’s momentum carried it toward her. It clipped her shoulder, tumbled across her back, and crashed into the tree. She lunged away and whirled to face it again, blade raised.

  Sicarius halted at her side, his black dagger poised, as
if he had been about to jump into the fray. The wolf lay still, though, its legs akimbo. Amaranthe lowered her sword, pleased she had handled it without his help. Though a simple forest predator should not have taken two killing blows to die.

  Sicarius put his back to the tree and scanned the surrounding darkness. “Wolves don’t have glowing eyes.”

  “Yes, I’m a tad new to mountain life, but I thought not.” Amaranthe retrieved her crossbow. “I think there’s more than one. I’m going to wake…”

  Across the camp, near the back of the lorry, a pair of green eyes watched her. Three more sets appeared on the road, milling. Claws clacked softly on the concrete. A twig snapped on the other side of the pond.

  “Go.” A throwing knife appeared in Sicarius’s hand. “Wake them.”

  He hurled the weapon toward the lorry. It landed with a fleshy thump. The glowing orbs slumped downward, then winked out.

  “Wake up, gentlemen!” Amaranthe ran to camp, crossbow in her right hand, short sword in her left. “Mutant wolves are attacking.”

  Basilard lunged out of the tent, rifle in hand. Books stumbled out after.

  “Build up the fire,” Amaranthe told them as she ran by to wake the others.

  Snores emanated from the back of the lorry where Maldynado had joined Akstyr. She raised her sword to thump on the metal side. A figure blurred out of the darkness, sailing toward the lorry bed.

  “Look out!” Amaranthe fired the crossbow one-handed.

  The quarrel took the wolf in the lung, but she dared not trust it to die promptly. She tossed the crossbow into the bed and scrambled after, sword still in hand.

  “What the—” Maldynado leaped over the other side, hitting the ground in a roll.

  The injured wolf landed an inch from Akstyr, claws screeching on metal. It spun toward Amaranthe. She stabbed at its eyes with the short sword, but it whipped its head to the side, and her blade only clipped its snout. The wolf leaped back, hurdling Akstyr.

  He lay so still, she feared him under some spell—or worse.

  The wolf wheezed and gurgled. That lung shot ought to have killed it. Its lips rippled as it snarled, and blood dripped from its fangs.