On Cosmic Tides

The wound on his shoulder itched like he couldn’t believe. It was maddening, and it took all his willpower to keep from reopening the scabs with incessant scratching. George dealt with it by remembering the agony of his first week on the steamer, shoveling with an arm sporting a gunshot wound. The ship was now in the process of docking, and George was ready to be off. He stood with the merchants and other passengers that would be disembarking in Oudigar. The second mate walked up to where he was wedged behind the more important passengers.

“Now son, are you sure we can’t keep you on for another few legs? Coalies that do what they’re told without complaining aren’t so easy to come by.” The genial man clapped him on the shoulder. The injured one. He just managed to avoid reacting. It was a decent offer, and in another life, one where he had never heard of the magehunters, he might have said yes. But he needed more distance and stronger mages between him and his old life.

“I’m afraid not. I’m on to Somorin after this, where my mother’s family lives.”

“Well, good luck to you. This here is your pay for the passage plus a little extra for being such a hard worker.” A handshake and the sailor was off to bellow at some deckhands who weren’t where they were supposed to be.

George went ashore with the rest and was faced with navigating an unfamiliar city when he didn’t speak the language beyond a few common phrases. Major ports like this usually had a lot of people who spoke Laskarian, which would probably be enough to find a friendly caravaneer. His clothes were sticking to his body already as he began to sweat. The humidity was oppressive now that there was no sea breeze cooling things off. He moved through the docks until he found what must be the equivalent of the port authority. Fancy looking men and women were going in and out carrying forms and frowning. In his experience, busy people wearing frowns was the best way to find the official buildings.

A bored-looking man that George was convinced worked in every major city was sitting behind a desk, waving at George to approach.

“Yes?” The man was speaking in the native language but transitioned to Laskarian when George’s accent mangled the Oudigan.

“I’m looking to find a trade caravan going out east, where would I go for that.”

The man rolled his eyes and pulled a city map out of a drawer. “We’re here. The Land Trade Commission is here. Good luck.” He jabbed a few places on the map to illustrate and waved George off again. If he’d known it was that easy he would have avoided letting anyone in on his direction, but it was too late now.

Head down, he navigated through the narrow streets. The city was like a rat warren, with no forethought to planning or navigation. At least twice, the streets on his map were blocked off or absent entirely, and he had to backtrack through the bustling crowds to find an alternate route.

George stumbled into the Land Trade Commission offices dripping with sweat and frustration in equal measure. Being inside the building wasn’t better, as the humidity remained and the small windows emphasized the stagnant air, rather than letting in any sort of breeze. The room was filled with a collection of hard-looking men and women from around the world. Some of the staid, mass-produced clothing he was used to from home mixed with bold patterns and airy fabrics of the locals, with even more exotic options he didn’t recognize. They all eyed him as he came in and then went back to whatever card, dice, or drinking game they were occupied with. No bored official was sitting at a desk to direct him, so he wandered over to the north wall like he knew what he was doing. The focal point of the room, it was covered in bits of paper. When he was closer he could make out job descriptions. Most were written in more than one language, Laskarian, Oudigan, some occasional Meristan. A few were translated into the languages from countries further away, but as he wasn’t trying to get to the far side of Naxos, those were ignored.

The notices seemed to be roughly arranged by region, and within each region, by specialties being sought out. He stood in front of the area marked out for Elgin, and scanned through the options. A few were looking for porters. That would be the ideal way for him to stay beneath the notice of anyone who might remember him later, but most of those were also demanding a year long contract at a minimum. No trader wanted to get to a destination and find they needed to hire locals to move their things when the porters left, or worse, abandon some of the merchandise. The specialist roles he skipped right past. George had no clue how to cook more than the bare basics, and organizing the whole group sounded like a nightmare. Besides, he wanted to be as unimportant to these people as possible. That left the guard positions. The vast majority of the help wanted notices were looking for guards, permanent or temporary.

If this place was like home, monsters would be showing up at random and attacking people. George wasn’t sure, but the amount of new guards needed made it seem like that was the case. His guns were still in his pack, kept clean and functional, even though he didn’t have any more bullets they could use. A few notices stood out as leaving in the next couple of weeks and going into Elgin on the east coast. Going through another country would be even better for him, anyone tracking his movements would have another entire system of bureaucracy to work through. Two of them said the people hiring would be in the commission building from noon to 15th bell. Since it was a few minutes past noon, he started searching.

The first caravaneer was an older woman, wearing the distinctive red scarf called out in the job posting. Back to a corner she was watching him approach while surveying the entire room. George could see scars up and down her exposed arms when he got closer.

“Miss Turis, with the Turis Trading Company?” George attempted to look friendly and competent while he stretched out his hand to shake. He wasn’t sure he exactly achieved that but there was nothing for it. “I’m here to discuss the guard position.”

“Oh you are?”

The tone had George bristling. He’d always been sensitive about being more wiry than obviously muscled, but he’d learned magic was a great equalizer in that regard.

“I’m good in a fight and have some combat experience.” His instinct was to mention he could help look after any animals or work with the porters as well, but he held it in. No need to seem desperate in front of the potential employer.

Turis took his measure for a while longer before responding. “I still have a few spots to fill and we’re leaving in four days. There’s a sparring ring out back, show me what you can do, and we’ll go from there.”

As promised, there was a dirt patch behind the building with a ring scratched into the ground. They entered and Turis immediately threw a punch. George dodged but she was already following up with a kick that caught him in the thigh. Not enough to do damage but enough to bring pride into play. He sent some of his now-recovered magic into his eyes. A technique that had let him fight the more elemental mages in his squad allowed him to practically dance around the regular woman in front of him. He saw an opening and ducked close, delivering a few blows to her stomach before ducking out again. He would have kept going but Turis stood and waved at him to stop.

“That’s enough. You can fight.” The woman was only slightly out of breath, impressive for someone without any magic to speak of. “I’ll make it easy. I need bodies fast, so you’re hired. You turn out to be working for a bandit gang or steal something, I’ll hunt you down and gut you. Sound good?”

“I’ll take it, when do we leave?”

*******

The jungle loomed over the caravan. Even with the recent maintenance on the road, the new growth hacked back for a few meters on each side, George could see tendrils of vines and other plants already reclaiming the land. It kept him on edge. He had grown up in a prairie, open skies as far as he could see. Even the forests he had seen throughout the empire were more open, less sinister than these. It didn’t help that the jungle was loud. Buzzing, croaking, the ever present rustling of leaves, he felt watched, hunted.

“Hey Lassie, how’s it going back here?” Another of the guards, Sven, wandered back to talk to him. The others used the nickname in good fun, his accent marked him as from the heart of the empire, despite how much he tried to tamp it down. Sven’s use was always much more biting. It was odd, especially given his own pale skin and heavy accent revealed him to be another expat, and from much further afield than George. But he was higher in seniority, like everyone else in the caravan, so George tried not to let his annoyance show. Having practiced keeping a blank face in front of the leaders of the magehunters, someone like Sven was easy to ignore.

“Nothing to report.”

Sven settled in beside him, apparently planning on joining him in the rear guard for a while. They strolled along. The mules pulling the heavily-laden carts couldn’t keep a fast pace so the guards were left on foot. The last time he’d been in Laskar City, a few new steam-powered vehicles had been shown off by some of the wealthier nobles, but it was a long way from an elite novelty to something an everyday trade group would use. So they had the mules, and they walked.

At least they were well-armed. George had been provided bullets for his pistols, as well as a rifle, a machete, and a hatchet when he’d shown up to the departure point. It was a relief. He had felt naked while out of ammunition, a constant itch between his shoulder blades from knowing he couldn’t defend himself if needed. He might get by in a fist fight but guns were the only weapon he was really proficient with. His hands drifted there now, slung on holsters hanging from his belt. The pistols were the only thing he’d taken with him when he left the magehunters, besides the clothes he’d been wearing, the coins he’d manage to stow away, and a magical instruction manual that was two-thirds propaganda. The way they conducted his magic was better than anything else he’d ever tried. They also disliked the humidity as much as he did. Every evening he sat by the fire and meticulously disassembled them for a cleaning before wrapping in a towel to keep moisture out overnight. It was supposed to get better when they eventually turned north, but for now he was living in damp misery.

“Do you hear that?” Sven asked.

George pulled his focus back to the present and strained to listen. “No, what are you —” He cut himself off as he heard what Sven mentioned. A lull in the regular drone of the jungle let a quiet growl slip through. They kept walking, eyes forward. In his periphery, George could see Sven’s hands reach for weapons as well.

“Zeb, Jor, we’ve got something unfriendly on the left, get ready.” Sven called out to the others in the same tone he’d been using, not raising his voice or making big moves. It took George a minute to catch up but when he did he gripped his guns even tighter. Anything stalking a group this big would have to be dangerous.

Whatever it was tailed the caravan for a while before it made its move. A dark blur shot out of the forest at one of the mules. Fangs and claws were all George had time to notice before the guards leapt into action. Multiple gunshots went off and the closest guards swung the machetes at the beast, which had turned out to be some sort of large jet-black cat. Maybe. The edges still seemed blurry, as if he couldn’t quite get his eyes to focus on it. Worse, the guards machete’s bounced off the hide without doing any appreciable damage. If the gunshots had hit the thing they hadn’t slowed it down.

Cycling some magic up to his eyes, George realized the cat was blazing with magic of its own. At the same moment, it stopped ravaging the mule it had attacked and looked directly at him.

“Shit,” he hissed out. He knew the other magehuters could tell if he was focusing on them but he didn’t think a monster would feel the same. The muscles in its legs bunched as it turned to face him. Pulling out both pistols, he pushed every bit of magic into them as he got off two shots. Hopefully no one would notice the glow amid the chaos. One shot went wide as the beast lunged with a roar, the other catching it dead center through the roof of its mouth.

He could feel the rapid beat of his heart as the cat-thing slumped to the ground a meter in front of him. The shadows that had been blurring the edges dissipated into nothing and the rest of the guards and other caravan staff gathered around.

“Enough gaping, this is the reason I hired you all in the first place. Get that thing back in the woods and get one of the spare mules hitched up. We still have a long way before the next campsite.” Turis’s voice echoed from the front of the caravan and everyone jumped into action. George and Sven dragged the carcass into the jungle, confident it would be gone within the hour.