CHAPTER 20

“Just keep the hose from getting tangled,” Books told Basilard after showing him how to operate the air pumps.

With the fire snuffed and the fog shrouding the lake, Books could not see Basilard for signs, but he sensed the man’s concern. Or maybe that was a reflection of his own concern.

“And watch out for glowing-eyed animals,” Books added, all too aware that Basilard would be the only one up there while he and Akstyr descended. “And the man with the white orb.”

The newcomer—the shaman responsible for all this, Akstyr said—had gone into the dam. Books wished he knew a way to pass him and warn the others, but the artifact had to take priority. It was fortuitous the shaman had gone inside instead of investigating around the lake. That’s what he told himself anyway.

“A lot for one man to watch out for.” Akstyr fiddled with his diving suit. The large helmet lay in the fog at his feet. “Didn’t Amaranthe say to wait for her?”

“That was before our shaman showed up.” Books placed the helmet over his head and fiddled with the clasps that fastened it to the suit for a watertight fit. Though the clear spring sky brought cold air, the heavy gear was stifling. In addition to the suit, he wore lead weights to counteract the buoyancy of the rest of the outfit. It would probably feel good to immerse himself in the water.

A branch snapped, and footsteps pounded toward them. Books unfastened the helmet and searched for his rifle. Basilard faced the sounds, his own weapon poised.

“Akstyr?” Maldynado called, then added in a lower voice, “Cursed fog. Where’s the slagging beach?”

“We’re here, by the lake.” Books grabbed a couple of lanterns and turned them up. He shoved the logs back together in the fire ring.

A few flames burst to life in time to show Maldynado racing into camp. Sicarius came on his heels and…

The helmet dropped from Books’s fingers. Amaranthe, soaked in blood and bandaged all about her torso, hung limp in Sicarius’s arms. She was not moving. Books was not sure she was even breathing.

Sicarius’s face was as hard and cold as a marble statue. “Akstyr,” he barked.

Akstyr gaped, eyes shifting from Sicarius to Amaranthe and back.

Maldynado ran for the gear pile, yanked out a bedroll, and spread the blanket by the fire. Sicarius laid Amaranthe on it. Books stepped forward, then stopped. He wanted to help but did not know how.

“Akstyr,” Sicarius said again. “Get over here.”

Mouth drooping open, Akstyr shook his head.

Books wrenched his gaze from Amaranthe. “You have to try, Akstyr.”

“I can’t—is she even…”

“She won’t be for long if you can’t do anything for her,” Maldynado said.

“I don’t know how to… I’ve just done cuts and I’ve barely started learning to—”

In an eye blink, Sicarius lunged around the fire, grabbed Akstyr by the collar of his diving suit, and yanked him close. Though Sicarius’s hard eyes were not directed at him, Books found himself stepping back.

“Heal her.” Sicarius forced Akstyr to his knees at Amaranthe’s side. Sicarius did not say “or else.” He did not have to. The threat hung in the air, as dense as the fog.

Akstyr did not speak again. He knelt, rested his hands on Amaranthe’s bandages, and closed his eyes.

“Do you think,” Maldynado murmured, uncertain eyes turned toward Sicarius, “he knows enough to…”

Sicarius shook his head once, slowly.

A lump swelled in Books’s throat. Without Amaranthe, there’d be nobody to hold the team together, nobody to give them purpose, nobody to care about them. About him.

Sicarius lifted a hand to his face, clenched it into a first, then dropped it and stalked to the edge of camp. He put his back against a tree, putatively on watch, but his eyes remained focused on Akstyr and Amaranthe.

A realization came to Books in that moment, one that shook his beliefs even more than when he had learned magic existed: Sicarius cared.

Books was not sure what deal kept Sicarius working with the team when he so obviously did not need their help to accomplish missions or evade bounty hunters, but he had never doubted there was a practical motivation. It had never occurred to him the man might be sticking around, at least in part, out of loyalty—or more.

“It was awful, Books,” Maldynado muttered, stirring him from his musings. None of that mattered now anyway. “I was hooking them and throwing ‘em, just like our plan. Got rid of the first three, but the other three got inside and…they got past Sicarius and went for her, tore her up. He got over to her and stood above her with that knife of his. I’ve never seen someone move that fast. Just a blur, you know? He cut ‘em up, hurt them more with that knife than we could with our rifles, and he kept ‘em off. While they were distracted, I pulled the chain inside and got the hook around their necks and yanked ‘em out one at a time. They didn’t even notice. They were so fixed on…” He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then turned them over and stared, seemingly surprised to find them stained with blood. “I wish there was something we could do.”

“There is.” Books lifted his chin. “We can finish the mission.” He picked up his helmet. “That’s what she would want us to do. We have to destroy that thing at the bottom of the lake.”

“You’re going now?” Maldynado asked. “Don’t you need…” He pointed to Akstyr.

“He’s busy.”

The idea of walking down a hundred feet beneath the surface already intimidated him. Doing it alone sounded more daunting, but if he could not take Akstyr, then who?

Basilard, though he cast concerned glances Amaranthe’s direction, remained at his guard post. He would still be a good man to have up top, monitoring the air supply and the hose—and the woods. If Books took Maldynado down, it would be based on needing strength. It might be better to have someone with knowledge of magic. Sicarius knew as much, if not more, about the mental sciences as Akstyr. That made him the logical choice. Unfortunately, he appeared unapproachable at the moment.

Books cleared his throat. “Ah, Sicarius? Will you take the other suit and go down with me?”

“No.” He did not lift his head, did not even consider it.

“We don’t have much time,” Books said. “The shaman is in the dam. He’ll soon figure out we’re over here.”

Sicarius’s gaze ratcheted onto Books. “The shaman is here?”

“Akstyr said it was our man. He had a magic globe for a light source.”

Sicarius stepped away from the tree. “I’ll find him.”

“Er, but we don’t want to find him, do we? We want to disable his device before he figures out that’s our intent.”

Sicarius was not listening to him. He pointed at Maldynado. “You watch her.” Though unspoken, the threat was there again.

He disappeared into the woods before Books could protest further. Maybe Sicarius thought the shaman capable of healing Amaranthe. Capable and coercible were different matters, though, and Books wondered if even Sicarius could force the person powerful enough to make these devices into helping.

Though…the shaman might prove less obstinate if his goods were destroyed and his plans thwarted.

Yes, Books had to do this. He nodded and grabbed a tool pouch. After a moment of debate, he strapped his sword belt around his waist. A foolish choice perhaps—with his luck, he could cut his own air hose—but he was not positive nothing inimical lurked in the depths.

“Maldynado, want to help me down there?” Books asked.

“I’m not going against his orders.” Maldynado jerked a thumb in the direction Sicarius had gone.

“Akstyr is with Amaranthe, and Basilard can keep an eye on everything else.”

“He said watch her, I’m watching her.”

Books huffed an annoyed breath. “The mission—”

“I don’t disagree,” Maldynado said. “But I’m not defying him. I’m young. I want to live.”

“Fine.” Books jammed his helmet on. He struggled to clasp the fasteners on his shoulder blades.

A hand patted him on the back. The helmet’s faceplate limited his vision, so he had to turn around to see who it belonged to. Basilard twirled a finger, telling Books to face front again, and he finished the clasps. A moment later, he pressed thumb and middle finger together in his “ready” sign.

Books breathed deeply, ensuring he could, then put a pair of rubbery gloves on and walked toward the water. The outfit did not have boots in the traditional sense, though the heavy foot coverings provided some protection. He felt the rocks beneath his soles and the sensation of water when he stepped into the shallows. The sword bumping against his legs and the weights dangling from the suit made his gait awkward. He continued onward.

Water lapped about his calves, then his thighs and hips. He sensed the coldness of the lake, but it did not chill him the way it would against bare skin.

When the water reached his neck, he turned to check his support. The hose snaked back toward the beach where Maldynado stood, helping Basilard reel it out while maintaining the air pump. Basilard lifted an encouraging arm.

No excuse not to go down.

Books took several more steps. When his head slipped below the water, again he paused to check everything. Air flowed through the hose, and he could breathe fine. No water crept under the helmet. He released a relieved sigh. It was working.

Slimy pebbles shifted beneath his feet as he delved deeper. He stepped carefully, not wanting to test the suit by pitching over sideways.

Pressure built in his ears and sinuses. He took his time, trying to let his body acclimate. Crisp and clear, the water allowed for good visibility, though night provided little to look at, especially to the sides where curtains of blackness shrouded the lake’s mysteries. Ahead, the glow of the artifact brightened as he drew closer.

Fish flitted across his path. Though none were larger than his arm, he brushed his fingers against the sword hilt for reassurance.

The light intensified, and he squinted as he descended the last twenty meters. Near the end, he lifted his arm to shield his eyes and kept his gaze toward the algae-coated pebbles beneath his feet.

Something brushed his calf, and he started. A foot-long water lizard with fish-like gills. It did not bother him, but green glowing eyes winked in its head as it swam away. The creatures living in the lake were likely as addled from the device’s influence as those on land.

Books reached the base of the artifact. The light emanated from a twenty-foot wide bowl facing the surface. It stood on a thick bronze pillar thrust into the slimy rocks. The entire contraption reminded him of a mushroom with an upside down cap.

Not sure if some sort of magical barrier might protect it, Books eased toward the base, one hand stretched outward. Nothing stopped him or zapped his fingers, and he was able to touch the smooth metal. The surface trembled faintly, as if machinery operated inside.

Beneath the bowl’s shadow, the light level was more tolerable. Nothing so helpful as an on/off switch revealed itself, but the thick glass faceplate hindered his sight. Books slid his hands along the bronze, probing the mushroom “stem” for controls.

Something sharp clamped onto his arm.

Books yelped and jerked away. Whatever it was hung on.

He pulled his arm before his faceplate. A three-foot-long fish had latched onto him, dozens of tiny sharp teeth puncturing the diving suit—and his flesh. Its jaw tightened, and its body whipped from side to side, as if it was trying to tear a chunk of his arm off to eat. Green glowing eyes burned in its scaled skull.

Cursing, Books yanked his sword free left-handed.

Another fish rammed into his side. The hilt slipped from his grasp. New pain stabbed his arm as his original iron-jawed assailant sank its teeth deeper.

Books punched the fish between the eyes. It gnashed down harder.

Something knocked him in the back, and he stumbled forward, almost smacking into the artifact. An eel curled past his shoulder and thumped its head into his faceplate. Books whipped his free arm up, grabbed it, and smashed it against the bronze stem.

He panted, fear tensing his muscles. How many ancestors-forsaken fish were down there? It was as if they were working together against him.

Calm, he told himself, glaring at the fish still latched to his arm. He had to stay calm.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Books crouched and groped on the slick bottom for his sword. Rock, rock, stupid fish—there. His fingers curled around the hilt.

He stood, feeling light-headed. He was breathing too quickly, too deeply for the amount of air flowing through the tube. There was no way to tell Basilard he needed more.

“Calm,” Books ordered himself again.

The heft of the sword in his hand reassured him. He kept from taking a wild swing—if he cut that hose, he would truly be in trouble. Instead he waited as the fish flexed from side to side. He timed the gyrations and stabbed upward.

Steel sliced into scales and flesh. At last, the sharp jaws abandoned his arm.

Blood clouded the water, more the fish’s than his, Books hoped. Cold water leaked into his suit where those teeth had cut into it. He had best not stay down here too long.

A second giant fish angled toward him, but he was ready this time. Though the water slowed the speed of his sword strike, he cut into the gills deeply enough to deter his scaled foe.

The sight of him with a weapon—or perhaps it was the blood in the water—kept the remaining fish in the shadows. Books returned to examining the artifact, though he wished he had someone down here to watch his back. Then again, Maldynado would be mocking him for having an epic battle with a fish. Perhaps solitary exploration had its perks.

Books sheathed his sword so he could swim and pushed off the bottom, veering toward the lip of the bowl. His gear dragged at him, but his momentum carried him far enough.

When he clasped the rim, a fresh wave of pain radiated from his wound. More than that, it tingled, as if ants were crawling around beneath his flesh. Pain from the bite was understandable, but the other sensations?

The water, he realized. His skin—his blood—was exposed.

If drinking a small sample downriver could make a person sick or turn an animal rabid, what power might it have this close?

“Nothing to be done,” he muttered, trying to push the new fear to the back of his mind.

Books focused on the bowl. Wishing the faceplate was tinted, he pulled himself up to peer over the lip. This close, the brilliant glow had the intensity of the sun. The light seared his eyes, and he could not make out anything. He squinted them shut and pulled himself over the lip. He crawled toward the center, exploring by feel rather than sight.

The smooth metal beneath his knees and gloved hands exuded warmth. His fingers brushed against a protrusion. A small cylindrical bump. The gloves interfered with his tactile senses, and it took him a moment to identify it as a simple nut. He found another, then a crease. The edge of a thin plate fastened to the surface, perhaps? After his knee found another nut—painfully—he reached a head-sized orb in the center. He slid his fingers over it, but, with the gloves on, could sense little.

Books removed the glove on his right hand. He was already exposed to the toxin in the water. At this point, it probably did not matter if more of it reached his skin.

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.