Curse Breaker Omnibus

by Melinda Kucsera

  Chapter 3

  Sarn gave the tangled branches overhead one more glance, but his sight failed to pierce them. Trees stood by watching him, no doubt waiting for him to make a move.

  Is this all a cruel game to them? Is this alien black thing their doing?

  Can it cross the twin circles of menhirs? Sarn couldn’t see them from here only sense their protective presence a half mile off. Before Sarn yawned a shaft leading into darkness so thick, it reminded him of the strange thing at the murder sites. Did it beat me here?

  Turning his back on the forest, Sarn vaulted onto a boulder. He dove through a cleft chiseled into the earth’s bones. The fire inside his eyes threw a nimbus around him, and it brightened as he tucked and tumbled. His sixth sense ballooned and bounced off seven people indicating a crowd below.

  Sarn ground his teeth in annoyance. He'd escaped one set of witnesses only to trade them for another. Who are these clowns, and what are they doing?

  The granite under their feet sensed him coming and turned malleable to absorb the kinetic energy of his fall. Sarn rolled toward his goal, scattering the witnesses in his path until his end-over-end run dumped him into an underground river. Cold water snuffed out his eyes’ glow and sapped his energy.

  Surfacing, Sarn grabbed a quick breath and a glance at seven thunderstruck people. Shadows veiled them, hiding any identifying marks or insignia.

  Likely those fools belong to a gang but which one? He tucked that mystery away for another time and submerged.

  Rocks pounded the surface, and he wove around them as they sank. Damn it. I drew too much attention with this stupid stunt.

  As Sarn swam, the map sharing space in his head unfurled, painting luminous green ribbons in the riverbed. Magic pulsed in those lines, starting a sympathetic beat in his skull. As his heart picked up the tempo, the magic called to him deepening the trance as it winnowed away all his concerns. His strokes slowed as his limbs grew heavy, and he plummeted toward the magic.

  Free me. I am prisoned in the watery bed of mine enemy. Free me, sang the magic.

  Sarn jabbed his fingers into the riverbed questing after the magic enthralling him. I must do as it commands.

  A mouthful of water broke the spell. Lungs screaming for air, Sarn clawed at the water until he breached the surface. Coughing, he grabbed hold of a passing stalagmite. Its cold, magic-less stone was the balm he needed as he vomited water mixed with stomach acid.

  The Rangers are right about me, after all. I just proved I'm an idiot. What did the magic care if it destroyed its host? It could get another one, but I only have one body, and the next distraction could be fatal.

  The dead boy ghosted up in front of Sarn breaking the tight ring of his thoughts. He felt the pull of those glassy eyes—they wanted something. Casting his eyes elsewhere, Sarn prevented the gaze-lock from taking hold.

  “Leave me alone. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  The specter ignored Sarn. Its dead eyes stared at him with a desperation that tore his heart.

  Sarn pushed off the stalagmite and swam onward. His eyes burned as his magic tried to reignite its inner fire and failed. Something dark hurtled through the water startling him. Another followed it. The third one struck his back, but his magic deformed its point before it penetrated. Still, its impact jarred him and sent pain radiating across his shoulder.

  Sarn broke the surface and stared at a quaking stalactite. Its tip cracked off and fell, helped by the flickering ghost boy whose translucent hands pried at another stalactite. Sarn dove aside as a fourth projectile splashed down too close for comfort.

  "Are you trying to kill me?"

  Sarn met the startled eyes of the ghost, and it shook its head. Pointing, the boy indicated something in the water. For one heart-stopping moment, a face floated on the surface, then a rock disrupted it.

  Sarn rubbed his eyes. That face—oh Fate—I couldn’t have seen him. No, Hadrovel's gone. That psycho’s shade isn't haunting me.

  But you didn’t see his dead body, whispered the voice of reason, and it was right.

  Sarn let his hands drop so he could tread water. The river was quite deep here and swift, but other than shadows, nothing shared it with him now. I imagined the hated visage of the Orphan Master. But the ghost boy gestured with increasing agitation at the spot and dropped more rocks on it.

  Sarn dodged the projectiles, taking one more hit to his shoulder before he gave up. I'll get no answers from a mute ghost. Diving under, he swam as fast as he could.

  Water washed over his face, drowning the magic. Sarn smiled as he felt it retreat deep into his body again. Sanity called, and he was keen to answer it.

  Twenty minutes later Sarn surfaced and hauled himself onto the shore. No ghost children occupied it. Flinging himself against a boulder, he relished being alone at last. Darkness pressed in on him. Without the glow of his eyes, there was only the feeble light of the tiny lumir stones studding the ceiling thirty-feet overhead. But this darkness was natural unlike the one he’d found at the murder sites.

  Footsteps echoed, jolting Sarn from his respite. He scanned the shore, but the too loud beating of his heart dominated his diminished hearing. Are they coming from over there? Do those shadows hide a tunnel?

  Triggering his head map, he waited, but it fizzled out in a shower of emerald sparks instead of spawning. Something interfered with it. His gaze fell on the underground river. Did you take away my head map?

  The river’s chatter threw more echoes around the cavern further confusing his ears. Sarn gripped the rock ready to throw himself back into the river. His eyes burned, and their glow burst forth in an explosion of pain and double vision.

  Clamping down on the urge to howl in agony, Sarn reeled for a moment, glad of his rock perch. It provided support and rough patches to grip, as his sight blurred, then steadied out. The double vision and the pain faded as he blinked. His eyes washed everything in green light including a gnarled toe protruding from a hole in a boot.

  “Easy,” said the newcomer, “It’s just Green Eyes.”

  Sarn risked a glance at the man standing at his elbow. Grime combined with the emerald glow of his eyes made it impossible to tell what color the man’s garments were. As far as he knew, the gangs left this area alone since there was nothing of value here. Considering the number of people he’d run into so far, that situation might have changed.

  The gap-toothed fellow waited for a response of some kind.

  “How do you know me?”

  “Zaduke.”

  Oh right, I owe Zaduke a favor.

  Anger flared up, but Sarn squelched it, and the memory of why he owed a jumped-up thug a favor. He had a friend with a drug problem, and Zaduke was a dealer.

  “What are you doing down this way? Rade and his men have claimed these tunnels.”

  Sarn frowned at the unfamiliar name. Usually, he avoided gangs. If only they would offer me the same courtesy.

  A sense of urgency pushed Sarn to his feet, and in the river’s black surface, he met the ghost's dead stare. Before the thing could throw any more rocks at his head, he ran. Maybe I can outrun the ghost.

  One of Zaduke’s men yelled something, and its echoes chased Sarn. But they were unintelligible when they caught up with him. So Sarn ignored them as he rushed down a staircase cut into a two-hundred-foot vertical drop. The river rushed by in a thunderous curtain on the opposite side of the ladder pretending to be a stair. Even with his eyes lighting the way, Sarn slipped on the wet stones until caution slowed his progress.

  At the stair’s bottom, he froze and closed his eyes to conceal their glow. Sarn stretched his senses out in search of danger while the mist thrown off by the falls hid him from sight.

  Symbols immediately populated his map. His magic had marked every person within a mile radius before he shut it off. No one was nearby or lying in wait, but of course, he’d ended up on the wrong side of the river.

  Thank Fate, my sixth sense is operational again because avoiding wit
nesses is impossible without it. And enough people have already seen me tonight.

  Vaulting from boulder to boulder, Sarn crossed the white-capped river. On the far shore, he checked his head map, which had just flickered into view, before selecting one of the three tunnels confronting him. Sarn took the left turning at a run and hit the maze comprising the Lower Quarters. Squalor, even one with such a genteel moniker, was still rankest poverty.

  The stink of urine, rotting food, and unwashed bodies intensified as he fled the river. Toward the caves where the indentured dwelt, he headed half choking on its damp, fetid air. What a change from the clean woodsy scent of the forest, and his lungs protested every breath. His footfalls echoed despite his attempts to muffle them.

  Ran must be okay. That one thought repeated, growing louder every time Sarn caught sight of the ghost child dogging his heels.

  Ahead the way forked again, and he skidded to a halt as a voice whispered, eam’meye erator. He still had no idea what it meant or why he heard a replay now. Sarn shook his head as the voice faded. What the hell was going on?

  A coughing fit doubled him up as smoke belched from a nearby grate. Each cough drove the unfamiliar phrase from his thoughts as he staggered away. He must leave this tunnel and find another way. Pulling energy from somewhere, he flushed out the fatigue burning his legs. He needed a breath of fresh air, but the Lower Quarters had none to offer him.

  Rounding a bend, he skidded to a halt by a shield-shaped rock formation. The ghost boy floated, arms outstretched, head shaking in denial. Behind the ghost lay the entrance to a gallery. Sarn checked his head map and frowned at a sea of skulls and crossbones littering its contours. After sifting through the addicts’ symbology, he relaxed when his friend’s icon was absent. Maybe Shade had embraced sobriety as promised.

  For a moment, the old curiosity seized Sarn. The ghost’s eyes implored him to select another route. And the sight of those pale green eyes reminded Sarn why he'd come down here—to check on his son. He turned aside.

  Every sound echoed despite the moldering fabric strung up by generations of women. Instead of soundproofing, they had established hanging mold colonies festering with disease. He dodged their fringes, sacrificing speed for assurance none of their filth touched him.

  Veins of a luminous stone, lumir, found only in Shayari, tried to light his way. They ran in parallel lines close to the thirty-foot ceiling. But they threw hardly any light into the eternal gloom choking this subterranean level. His eyes made up for the weak light nature had provided as he pushed on.

  Entering a gallery full of collapsed columns, smashed stalagmites, and broken stalactites, he relaxed. Their sharp protuberances gave the cavern teeth and served as a barrier to curiosity. Picking his way took time since the piles of debris stood taller than him. Sweat had drenched Sarn by the time he reached the other end of the five-hundred-foot gauntlet.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow before it could burn his eyes, he got his bearings. Three tunnels confronted him. Checking both on his head map, he searched for people icons. The first two had pedestrians, so he set off down the third tunnel.

  Moving as soundless as possible, he listened for signs of pursuit. But the echoes reaching his ears held jocularity, instead of threats. Someone had found a flask of wine. Judging from the laughter, that someone was having a good time getting drunk.

  Abandoned because it was a pain in the ass to find, this area of the Lower Quarters made a perfect hideout. The caves were difficult to reach, but the set-up offered more security than any other cave down here. So what if they provided cramped accommodations? Debris from the earthquake these caves had survived, restricted their access. Picking up the pace, he loped around bends, keeping his steps as light and quick as a feather.

  After about a half hour of winding his way around, he arrived at his goal. Rough planks lashed together to form a door. And it had never looked so damned good. Sarn halted and checked for signs of forced entry as he sucked in deep breaths. His heart beat in his ears again limiting what he could hear from the outside world.

  Pushing his sixth sense out beyond his skin, it dove into the room, and two stars bloomed on his head map. One marked his brother, and the brighter one pointed to his young son. His hand fell to the handle while his sixth sense swept the tunnel for watchers.

  Dim lights flared one hundred paces down around a bend in the tunnel where the Foundlings lived. He counted two dozen tonight. Yesterday there had been nineteen.

  Who came back?

  Not Beku, his son’s mother, because her icon wasn’t there. He swatted that curiosity away as the door yielded. Fear pushed him into the cave.

  Chapter 4

  The door swung in on quiet hinges. Orange light suffused the cave, originating from palm-sized wands of orange lumir. Sarn rushed to two sleeping forms and dropped to his knees by the straw-affair serving as a bed. Heart in his mouth, he scooped up a small form huddled under a blanket.

  “Papa?” The boy struggled to return the hug despite the blanket cocoon pinioning his arms. “You’re back.”

  Sarn nodded, and relief washed over him. My little boy’s alive. Relief swept him off an emotional cliff as he held his green-eyed son against his racing heart.

  Sitting back on his haunches, Sarn shoved down all the fear and worry. The boy who gave his life meaning was alive and well. Thank—but there was no one to thank for that miracle. Instead, he held his son in a tight embrace as he scanned the room seeking threats or signs of that strange power he’d sensed and seen at the last murder site.

  Nearby a chest held some of their spare clothes while the rest lay discarded on the floor. Something darted under a table laden with stacks of books and papers thanks to his brother's schooling.

  Was it an insect?

  It was small enough to be one, and the Lower Quarters teemed with vermin of all kinds.

  Did I imagine that alien essence swallowing the night sky? Sarn loosened his grip a little. He wanted to hug his son, not strangle his squirming child.

  Miren waved recalling Sarn to the conversation he’d been ignoring. His brother was fourteen and difficult at times.

  “Hey, I’m asking you questions, and you’re zoning out.”

  “Sorry, what did you want to know?”

  “Did they let you off early?” Miren rubbed his eyes.

  Sarn shook his head as the realization hit him and almost bowled him over. What did I do? He cursed himself, mentally of course.

  “Why’re you back so soon? They’ve never let you off so early. Are you okay?” Miren eyed his elder brother. “You’re all wet. What the hell happened out there?”

  “Wet,” Ran complained, and his little face screwed up with distaste. The boy picked at Sarn’s saturated tunic.

  “Sorry, I had to make sure you were okay.”

  “We’re okay. I wouldn’t let anything happen. I thought you trusted me.”

  “I do. I—” Sarn broke off before he could get himself into more trouble. You’re my anchor. Without your trust, I'd lose what sanity I have left. But he left that unsaid rather than frighten his brother with such a revelation.

  “You stay.” Ran shook his head, and his fingers convulsed on the handful of tunic he held. “You must stay.”

  Uh-oh, Ran’s chin had a stubborn set to it—not a good sign. His son had turned four in mid-March.

  “I have to go back,” Sarn said, hating his predicament. If he stayed, he’d be in serious trouble.

  “No, you left. You came back. Now you have to stay.”

  "I wish I could."

  It hurt to shake his head at his son’s request. But I’m Indentured. My time belongs to the Ranger I ditched in the forest. Sarn felt the urge to bang his head into a wall at his stupidity. But he refrained for the sake of his son who was shooting him determined looks.

  “He has to go back. He’ll be in trouble if he doesn’t go.”

  Worry creased Miren’s face which bore only a faint resemblance to Sarn’s. After all,
they were only half-brothers and so far, they had only the non-magical half in common. The lucky teen glared at Sarn with brown eyes, and their dullness reassured Sarn.

  I can live with my freakishness if my brother stays uncorrupted by magic.

  “If you go back will you be in trouble?” Miren asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never gone AWOL before.”

  No one had, but Sarn kept that tidbit to himself. He ran a hand over his face, and his fingers brushed the scar running down the left side of it. A parting gift from Hadrovel, the scar reminded him trouble stalked his every step. And when it leaves me alone, I look for it. The Rangers are right about me. I am a fool.

  “You must go back right now before you’re missed. If you aren't gone too long, maybe you won’t be in trouble.”

  “No,” Ran interjected, clinging to him, wanting nothing more than his company.

  Miren’s dull eyes urged Sarn to get up and go. He didn’t.

  Even his magic lay quiescent in his veins neither arguing for or against staying. Maybe it, too, was of two minds about both options. But his heart pounded out its own demand, and his thoughts drifted back to the cold darkness obscuring the murdered child haunting him. It was like the dark damp of the Lower Quarters, and the similarity bothered Sarn.

  Is that wrongness already here? It might be because I still don’t know what it is.

  “No,” Ran shook his head, and his vivid green eyes reminded Sarn of the dead boy’s faded ones.

  For the ghost boy, I must go back. There might be a clue to help me figure out what happened and why.

  Then what? Magic is illegal, and you don’t have any training—that damned voice of reason said, and it was right.

  Movement caught his eye. Sarn scanned the room for its source and scowled at the hindquarters of a cockroach vanishing into a pile of dirty clothes. Its compound stare prickled his skin with its concentrated malevolence. His cave no longer felt like a refuge.