Dark Currents

by Lindsay Buroker

  The shaman strode toward her, pain and fury contorting his face. He gripped his shoulder with his free hand, and blood ran through his fingers.

  The bowman followed. He stopped a few paces away, nocked an arrow, and pointed it her direction. Amaranthe gave one last yank to her legs, but they remained rooted.

  “We talk now.” The shaman grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet.

  The pressure wrapping her ankles disappeared, but it was too late to do anything. The shaman had an iron grip, and the bowman appeared competent.

  Amaranthe gazed up at the cliff top to the destruction left by the shaman’s magic. If Sicarius had survived the explosion, it seemed he had no means to help her at the moment. If he had not survived…it was her fault.

  CHAPTER 14

  The first drops of rain spattered, leaving wet stains on the rocks. Wind whistled through the canyon, tugging at Amaranthe’s clothing and battering the tents surrounding her. The moist air smelled of burning coal and a coming storm. The approaching clouds were almost as dark as the black plumes wafting from a pair of steam shovels working on either side of the camp.

  Amaranthe sat on her knees before an unlit fire pit. Ropes bound her ankles to her wrists, which were pulled behind her back, making her shoulders ache. The shaman had marched her past piles of limestone on the way in, but she still had no idea what the men sought. Surely not the rock itself.

  The shaman strode out of a tent with a slight wiry man at his heels. The attendant clutched scissors in one hand, tweezers in the other, and a bloody rag dangled over his arm.

  “Please, wait, sir. I’m not finished.”

  The shaman snarled a chain of words in his tongue. The attendant, who had the darker skin and hair of a Turgonian, lifted his arms in bewilderment. “If you would just sit down for a moment…”

  The shaman stopped before Amaranthe. From her knees, she had to crane her neck back to find his eyes.

  His bone-blade knife came out, and he rested it at her throat. “Before you die, you will speak to me all you know of Sicarius. All weaknesses, all everything.”

  She sat straighter. “Does that mean you didn’t find his body? That he’s still alive?”

  The shaman had dispatched a team of men to check, but they had not returned yet.

  He scowled. “Much rubble. Probably he dead and buried. You tell me his weaknesses anyway.”

  “If he has any, I don’t know them.” She shrugged, deciding on a casual response rather than open defiance. She would tell him nothing, but it would be foolish to declare that and imply there was no point in keeping her alive. “Though he is a poor conversationalist. I don’t know, can you use that?”

  The shaman glowered. “You are no funny.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Sir,” the attendant said. “You’re bleeding all over camp. Shall I get that pistol ball out first?”

  The shaman returned his knife to his sheath. “Yes. Mundane weapons no always best way to get answers, and I must have concentration for other ways. No pain.”

  They strode into a nearby tent together, leaving Amaranthe wondering what non-mundane interrogation methods he might subject her to. Best to escape and not find out.

  The camp lay deep within the canyon. To escape she would have to run past several pickaxe-wielding workers as well as the ambulatory machinery. One step at a time, she told herself. Hands first.

  The bowman sat on a boulder, oiling the limbs of his weapon, glancing at her from time to time. She shifted slightly to keep her hands hidden behind her back while she worked at the ropes, trying to dig a thumbnail into a knot. Inside the tent, the shaman spoke to someone in a language she could not understand. He wasn’t conversing with the Turgonian surgeon. So, who was he talking to?

  She had encountered a communication device before, in Larocka’s basement, and wondered if the shaman had one inside. Though he had not asked Amaranthe her name, someone, maybe a lot of someones, would soon know Sicarius was up here. If he wasn’t dead.

  Amaranthe did not want to consider that possibility. He was too aware; he would have seen or sensed the attack coming. Even if it was magical. He would have run off the ledge before it collapsed. But, if he was alive, wouldn’t he be doing something to help her escape the camp? And to get rid of the shaman before he could report Sicarius’s whereabouts?

  Maybe he was injured and needed her help.

  Amaranthe doubled her efforts on her bonds, scraping skin raw, but loosening them infinitesimally. She eyed the camp as she worked. If she managed to free her hands, she would need a distraction, a big one considering the shaman could immobilize her from a distance.

  Wind battered the tents framing the fire pit, though not enough to blow open flaps so she could see inside. A crate sitting beside one caught her eye. A faded stamp read, Blasting sticks. That, not magic, must be what someone had thrown at Sicarius. She grimaced. It made little difference.

  Pained curses came from the shaman’s tent. His assistant must be pulling the pistol ball out. Little time left.

  A young man Akstyr’s age jogged into the camp. He paused to eye her curiously before angling toward a tent. Dirt smudged his cheeks, and stubble fuzzed his chin, but neither hid the handsomeness of his face.

  “Afternoon,” Amaranthe said as the youth passed her.

  He twitched in surprise and glanced behind him, as if checking to be sure she was addressing him.

  “I’m Amaranthe,” she told him. “What’s your name?”

  “Er, Dobb.”

  Her guard kept sliding a rag along his bow, but his eyes lifted, tracking the exchange.

  “What’re you doing working up here?” she asked the youth.

  Dobb shrugged. “Need the money.”

  “Looks like hard work. Hope it pays well.”

  “Not really.”

  The rain grew heavier, pattering on the tent roofs. Amaranthe hoped it kept the shaman from hearing her chitchat. She continued to pry at her bonds as she talked.

  “Then why work way out here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like a smart thing to do when they offered the job. I didn’t have any work in Stumps.”

  “Dobb, quit your yammering and get back to work,” the bowman said.

  The knot Amaranthe was working on loosened. Careful to keep her shoulders from moving too much, she untied it.

  “Gonna be a big storm,” Dobb said. “Pit boss said to get the lanterns lit and bring tarps to cover the machinery.”

  “Then you best do that,” the bowman said.

  Amaranthe sat up straighter at the words “lanterns lit.” Dobb slipped into the tent, revealing crates and food sacks before the flap fell shut. When he came out, he carried a large folded tarp. A box of matches stuck out of his pocket.

  “With your looks, you could be working as a female companion,” Amaranthe told him.

  The tarp slipped from Dobb’s arms. “A what?”

  “An escort for well-to-do women seeking handsome men to attend social events with them.” Amaranthe unwound the rope from her wrists.

  Dobb stared at her. “You can get paid for that?”

  The bowman stood. “Get back to work, Dobb.”

  “Paid well,” Amaranthe said, eyes locked with the youth’s. “One of my comrades used to be in that business. Maybe I could have him arrange an introduction for you.”

  “An introduction? Like to vouch for me?”

  The bowman stalked over and grabbed Dobb’s arm. “I said, get to work.”

  Dobb yanked his arm free. “You’re not the boss here.”

  The bowman took him by the collar. “I’m in charge of the prisoner, stupid. Don’t let her talk you into—”

  With her hands free, Amaranthe lunged to her feet. She yanked the match box from Dobb’s pocket, then sprinted around the bowman, kicking him in the back of the knee as she passed. He crumpled, grasping his leg. Dobb jumped backward to avoid him and fell through a tent wall.

  Am
aranthe threw open the lid to the crate and grabbed two blasting sticks.

  “Get her!” the bowman yelled.

  She tore open the box of matches, spilling them everywhere. She snatched one, swiped it against the crate, and lit the fuse.

  “Idiot, don’t let her—”

  Amaranthe tossed the stick into the center of camp as the shaman stepped out of his tent.

  “What—” he started.

  “Run!” The bowman crashed into him in his race to escape the camp.

  Amaranthe snatched a handful of spilled matches and ran toward the mouth of the canyon. Ahead of her, dozens of men chiseled at the stone walls with pickaxes, and two ambulatory steam shovels belched smoke.

  The explosion rocked the earth, its thunderous boom echoing from the walls.

  The workers dropped their pickaxes and gaped in her direction. She veered toward one of the rock walls, hoping she could follow it to the mouth of the canyon before someone shot her.

  “Get woman, or nobody get paid!” the shaman roared, voice muffled.

  Amaranthe hoped a tent had fallen on him.

  Despite his ultimatum, most of the workers scurried out of her way when she waved the remaining blasting stick. The closest steam shovel operator did not. He rotated his machine toward her, and it rolled forward on its huge treads.

  She kept going, hoping she could outrun the steam shovel. She lifted the blasting stick in one hand and a match in the other so the operator could not miss her threat. Amaranthe did not want to blow anyone up, but she was not going to let him crush her beneath those treads either.

  As she ran, rain blew sideways, stinging her eyes. More orders to stop her came from the remains of the camp.

  The operator continued toward her, narrowing the gap between the machine and the wall. He must think the metal cab enclosing him would make him invincible to the blasting stick. Not likely, she thought grimly.

  Amaranthe slowed down to swipe the match. She tried to light the fuse without stopping completely, but running made it difficult.

  An arrow clattered on the rocks a half foot from her. No, she dared not stop. The match flame brushed the fuse. It smoldered but did not light. Too wet.

  The steam shovel bore down on her. Another arrow skimmed past, stirring her hair. Her match went out.

  “Cursed ancestors.” She gave up on lighting the fuse and pumped her legs faster.

  Amaranthe hurled the unlit stick toward the smoke stack, thinking she might get lucky and it would drop inside and ignite. It bounced off the roof of the cab. The driver swung the long, extendable shovel at her. It scraped along the wall, sheering off rock as it veered toward her head.

  She ducked low but did not slow down. Shards of rock thudded onto her shoulders and head, and warm blood trickled down the back of her neck, but she pressed on. The shovel was not agile enough to outmaneuver her. She escaped its reach and sprinted for the end of the canyon. Ten meters and she could run around a corner and disappear in the forest. She hoped.

  A dark figure stepped from around that corner, rifle raised.

  At first, she saw only that weapon trained her direction. It fired, billowing smoke into the soggy air. Sicarius.

  A cry sounded behind her. The driver tumbled from the cab, a pistol flying from his fingers. It fired when it hit the ground.

  Relief washed over Amaranthe, both at seeing Sicarius alive and at his action. That weapon had surely been aimed at her back.

  The driverless steam shovel crashed into the wall.

  Amaranthe sprinted around the corner, slapping Sicarius on the shoulder. She wanted to wrap him in a great hug, but there was no time. They needed to put distance between themselves and the shaman.

  She ran several steps before realizing Sicarius was not following. Thinking he had paused to reload, she whirled to tell him to do it later. He was not there.

  One of the rifles, the one he had fired already, leaned against the rock face where he had been standing. Amaranthe backtracked and peeked around the corner.

  Sicarius stood, the second rifle raised, using the crashed vehicle for cover.

  Before she could decide whether to join him or yell at him to get out of there, he fired. The steam shovel blocked her view, and she did not see what—who—he hit, but she could guess.

  “The shaman?”

  “Yes.” Sicarius jogged past her without slowing. “They’re gathering weapons.”

  Amaranthe grabbed her rifle and chased after him.

  “He knew you were out here,” she said when they reached the trees.

  He slowed so she could run beside him.

  “He knew your name and your history with Mangdoria,” Amaranthe went on. “I think he told someone. Someone who speaks Mangdorian. If it’s Ellaya, well, she’s already irked with me for destroying her gizmo-making machine. She’ll want us extra dead now. Me anyway.”

  “I’ll kill her when we get back.”

  Amaranthe missed a step. His cold, blunt efficiency should not surprise her by now, but sometimes, when he was acting more…human than others, she could forget about it. “She didn’t actually seem to loathe you, not the way this man did. Maybe I can talk with her, convince her she doesn’t want to be our enemy.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “You’re in a dour mood. Is it because I almost got you blown up?” She eyed him as they jogged between the trees, mud splattering with each footfall. With his black attire, it was hard to spot blood, but he appeared unharmed. “I am sorry about that, but…” She started to make an excuse, to explain that it was the shaman sensing him that had caused trouble, but it had been her scheme to go down and talk to him in the first place. “I’m sorry. How did you escape?”

  “They weren’t as stealthy as they thought. I’d moved before they threw the blasting stick.”

  “Good. I’d feel—” utterly and irrevocably devastated, she thought, “—a little upset if I got you killed.”

  He slanted her a flat look. “You should.”

  Thunder boomed through the valley, and the rain picked up.

  “I found out some new information at least.” More about him than the mystery, but her mind did not want to process that yet. Safer to think about the land and the water plot. The pieces of that puzzle floated on the periphery of her mind, and she felt close to drawing them together into a cohesive picture.

  Her comment only made Sicarius’s expression harder, and she wished she had said nothing about his history with Mangdoria.

  • • • • •

  Books fought back a yawn. He shifted in his hard chair and turned his gaze from the crackling fireplace toward the log bed—and its soft, inviting quilts. He had the room to himself and the opportunity to enjoy a serene night of sleep. Too bad that was not the plan.

  A thump occasionally sounded downstairs, audible over the rain pelting the roof. Someone in the household remained awake. In another hour, he might be able to leave his room to investigate. Amaranthe would call it snooping.

  He wanted to accept Vonsha’s explanations as truth, but Maldynado was right: she had shown them no evidence to justify a trek through the pass.

  His chin drooped. He dozed until his own snores woke him.

  The fire burned lower. Books listened but heard no footsteps, no bumping about, only wind buffeting the walls.

  He stood and removed his boots, not trusting his ability to walk stealthily in the clunky footwear. He padded to the door in his socks. A floorboard creaked like a howling coyote.

  “Oh, yes, this will work,” he grumbled.

  Books slipped into the hallway. And stopped. Where should he go to snoop? Rambling through the sprawling house, hoping to find some sign of nefarious plots, seemed unlikely to deliver results. Would Vonsha have her notes in her room? He shied away from the idea of sneaking into her bed chamber. He remembered passing a study on the bottom floor. Maybe Lord Spearcrest kept information about the property there. That might be a place to start.

  No sooner had he sta
rted down the hallway when a door ahead opened.

  Books halted, not sure whether he should flee back to his room or concoct some excuse for wandering.

  Vonsha stepped out, a lacy nightgown swirling about her calves. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders in brown waves, almost hiding the bandage on her neck. The thoughts spinning through Books’s head ground to a halt, and he could only stare.

  “Books?” she asked. “Were you going somewhere?”

  “I…wanted to talk to you.” Not exactly, but maybe he could obtain his information from her. He would have to take charge of the question-asking though. No sitting close and smelling her perfume and definitely no gazing at the bare flesh revealed by that sleeveless, low-cut nightgown.

  “Talk?” Vonsha asked. “I don’t usually ‘talk’ to men in my bedroom while I’m at my parents’ house, but I guess I’m too old for them to chastise about such things now.”

  “I—uhm.” Books swallowed.

  She took his hand and led him into the room. The only thing he noticed inside was the bed and how its sheets were already turned down.

  Vonsha stepped close, her chest brushing his torso. “Are you always shy and awkward, or do I make you nervous?”

  “Oh, I’m always awkward, but yes to the latter.” Of course, some of that nervousness was due to the fact that he was supposed to be investigating. If he didn’t feel obligated to research the place, he would—

  She stood on her tiptoes, and the floral scent of her perfume teased his nostrils. Her lips brushed his, warm and inviting.

  He slid his arms around her waist and forgot about research, and about being shy as well.

  • • • • •

  Rain hammered the top of Amaranthe’s head, while wind whipped branches into her eyes. Daylight had vanished from the valley. She stumbled along behind Sicarius, stretching out a hand every few moments to make sure he still walked in front of her. Soaked clothing stuck to her body, chafing and rubbing skin raw. A tree snapped and crashed to the ground behind them.

  “Where are we going?” Amaranthe yelled to be heard over the wind.