Darkwood Flash Fiction #1

“Are you ready, Beltrus?” The whisper came from his left. R’chelle Darlos crouched beside him in the filthy alley, clutching a microphone in her diminutive fist. She flashed him a reassuring grin. “We’ve covered stories in sketchier locations than this.”

“It’s not the location that bothers me.” Jaco took a steadying breath. “Have you ever confronted a Forest Prophet before?”

“You mean a back-alley prophet?” R’chelle replied, using the unflattering nickname favored by most Caorranians. Her shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug. “They’re more annoying than dangerous. Nobody takes their doomsday theories seriously.”

Jaco kept his opinion to himself. The back alleys of Caorran were familiar territory to him. He’d grown up in the tenements adjacent to the industrial Traig-Saogal District; she hadn’t.

R’chelle craned her neck. “I hear footsteps.”

Jaco rose to his feet, pasting his left eye to the camera viewfinder. A solitary figure shuffled toward them under the silvery light of the twin moons. R’chelle edged in front of Jaco, eager for the surprise interview. He wished he could shield her behind his body, but he knew better. R’chelle Darlos was fearless, a feisty journalist who liked to live on the edge.

A tall figure came into focus, muffled in the tawny robes of the Forest religion. His head was covered by the coarse-woven cowl traditionally worn by the Forest Prophets, oddly coupled with a pair of modern sandshades like the ones worn by Jaco and R’chelle.

The robed figure halted abruptly as he caught sight of them. He kept a wary distance, the fingers of one hand clenched around a long wooden staff. Jaco took three long strides forward, and R’chelle darted ahead of him, aiming her microphone at the cowled face.

“R’chelle Darlos, Channel Five News.” Her voice raised a hollow echo in the alley’s narrow confines. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the new bylaw restricting back-alley prophets from the public square.”

“Channel Five?” The prophet lifted the edge of his cowl and spat on the pavement. “The media are pawns of the Assembly — the howling dogs of your blind leaders. Traitors, all; you have forsaken the Forest.”

Jaco kept filming, but placed a cautionary hand on R’chelle’s shoulder. “Easy, Chelle,” he said quietly. “They refer to themselves as faidh, not back-alley prophets.”

His words seemed to incense the faidh. “How dare you address her in such cavalier fashion? You are her Left Hand, nothing more. I forbid you to touch her again!”

R’chelle barked a humorless laugh. “Jaco’s not my Left Hand; we’re co-workers—equal partners. Your repressive caste system has been dead and gone for over a decade. And good riddance.”

The faidh leaped at her with an incoherent howl, slapping the microphone out of her hand. Jaco shoved between them, and the faidh brought his staff down on the camera with a sickening crack. Jaco had expected such a tactic, and allowed the camera to slide from his shoulder, using its momentum to spin in a tight circle.

His boot caught the faidh in his unprotected midriff. The back-alley prophet collapsed to the pavement, trading his outraged howl for a series of wheezing gasps. His staff slipped from his fingers; Jaco kicked it out of reach.

He whirled to face R’chelle. “He may not be alone. It’s best if we go.”

She grinned as if nothing had happened. “Did you get a good close-up? We got some great sound-bites.”

Jaco shook his head, in equal parts worry and admiration. “You’re incorrigible.”

R’chelle winked and retrieved her microphone. “All in a night’s work.” She wiped the microphone against her trousers and sauntered back the way they came.

Jaco scooped up his camera bag and snugged the camera inside. He stole one last glance at the fallen faidh — hunched on hands and knees as he emptied his stomach on the concrete — and hurried after R’chelle.

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