Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  Wood snapped somewhere above, and green needles rained onto the creature. It merely backed up to charge again.

  Sicarius picked out a second tree for a backup perch, though it was too far away to reach without returning to the ground first. Crossing the distance would take an eternity during which they’d be vulnerable to attack.

  Basilard lowered his hand, offering help. Sicarius climbed into the lower branches without it, giving Basilard a flat look. He’d merely been considering other options, not pausing because he needed assistance.

  Basilard looked… amused. At least until the creature slammed into the tree again. More needles fell to the snow below, and a groan emanated from the trunk. Their perch wouldn’t survive the battering indefinitely. Sicarius decided he’d made a mistake in not taking Basilard’s earlier advice. The admission would gain him little now.

  Basilard wrapped an arm around the trunk, freeing his fingers so he could sign. This isn’t the first time I’ve been stuck in an awkward position with you, due to your interest in seeking information for Amaranthe.

  “It was your choice to come.”

  Sicarius considered his knives and the contents of his pockets, wondering if he had anything that could harm the soul construct, or at least deter it from further molesting their tree. His black dagger might scrape its flesh, but he doubted even a pierced eye would stop it. He considered the cloud-filled eastern horizon and thought about sawing through a few branches and dropping them on its head, if only to buy them time. The last soul construct had possessed a built-in sense to stay hidden, meaning it had disappeared at dawn or when great numbers of people were approaching. He hoped this one had a similar instinct, or they would be in trouble.

  If I returned and you didn’t, Amaranthe would have been upset with me.

  Gnawing sounds arose from below—the canine construct had changed tactics. Instead of ramming the tree with its shoulder, it was tearing huge chunks from the base. The scent of freshly cut hemlock drifted up.

  “She would have forgiven you,” Sicarius said.

  At least we have clothing this time.

  “Nudity would have been impractical given the season,” Sicarius said before realizing Basilard had been joking. Determined to improve his skills in that area, he added, “Also given our need for pockets.” He pulled out a foldaway serrated knife from one of his own pockets.

  Basilard grinned. If only Sicarius could get that response from Sespian.

  Since the creature was staying in one place—though gnawing off shards of wood at an alarming rate—Sicarius decided to try the branch idea. He shifted positions so he could get to one over its head.

  Basilard waved at the base of the tree—the trunk must be six or eight feet in diameter, but the construct had already gnawed a third of the way through. Where to when it fells this tree?

  Still sawing, Sicarius considered the tall brick buildings across from the docks. If they had a suitable distraction, they might be able to reach the first of them, climb up, and hop from rooftop to rooftop. Otherwise, their best bet was to run up another tree.

  Before the serrated blade cut all the way through, the weight of the branch took it down. It plummeted, and his aim proved true. The branch smashed into the top of the creature’s head. It staggered back, startled for a moment, but it didn’t let out a yelp or whine or anything to indicate it had been damaged. Instead it glared up at Sicarius, crimson eyes full of threat.

  Basilard signed, Is it my imagination or does it seem to be glaring at you specifically?

  The massive hound returned to tearing chunks out of the base of the tree.

  Sicarius eyed the waterfront street. With the approach of dawn, men and women were about, heading for work. Several blocks away, a trolley pulled around a corner, its bell dinging as people hopped off.

  “There is easier prey around if all it wants is a meal,” Sicarius said.

  A shudder coursed through the tree. Wood cracked, and creaks and snaps sounded from within the trunk. Sicarius braced himself, preparing to leap free.

  Basilard signed, The next closest tree?

  “You go that way. I’ll run for the buildings.”

  Are you being noble and sacrificing yourself so I can get away, or do you believe it’ll chase me, giving you time to reach the rooftops?

  The trunk shuddered again. The soul construct backed up, preparing itself for one last ramming.

  “Amaranthe would be displeased if I deliberately sacrificed you,” Sicarius said, on the balls of his feet, ready to spring free.

  It’s not escaping me that you didn’t answer my question. You’ve displeased Amaranthe before.

  Sicarius didn’t answer. He doubted the soul construct would follow Basilard; for whatever reason, it was intent on him.

  The creature raced full speed at the tree and leaped, hurling all of its weight at the trunk. A final snap announced the hemlock’s demise. The tree pitched several feet to the side, and Sicarius was on the verge of leaping, but the trunk halted, not quite ready to plummet all the way down.

  “Wait,” Sicarius said, for the construct had paused, an ear cocked toward the lake.

  Basilard had been in the middle of springing away, and he tried to catch himself, lunging for a branch, but another shudder coursed through the tree, and he missed the grasp. He dropped to the ground not ten feet from the creature, his feet slipping on the ice.

  Sicarius jumped down, hurling the serrated knife to draw the beast’s attention, then raced toward the buildings. He knew as he ran that he wouldn’t have enough time—he’d gauged the speed at which the construct covered ground and run the calculations in his head—but maybe if he got close enough to the dockworkers, it’d decide that it couldn’t reveal itself, then turn away.

  When he didn’t hear paws hammering the ground behind him, Sicarius glanced back. The creature wasn’t following him. A feeling of concern—one he wouldn’t have expected in regard to anyone except Amaranthe or Sespian—came over him. He slowed down, searching the snow for Basilard. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. But there wasn’t any blood nor other signs of a fight either. Only the wool cap he’d been wearing lay in the snow. Maybe he’d simply run up the next tree. The construct remained in the same spot, its head cocked toward the lake. Like a dog that had heard its owner’s whistle to come home?

  That big, blunt head rotated slowly, its red-eyed gaze landing on Sicarius again. Maybe not a command to come after all. Maybe one to kill. The creature turned so it faced him, and Sicarius prepared to race away. He had a head start this time. He’d reach the buildings. He’d—

  The creature sprang. Not, as he expected, toward him, but toward the lake. It ran to the shoreline, leaped into the air, and was paddling its legs before it hit the water.

  Still crouching, ready to run, Sicarius watched for a long moment before he relaxed. Remembering the bounty on his head and that human dangers existed in the city as well, he took a quick survey of his surroundings—in the poor lighting, nobody seemed close enough to have seen the incident, though a couple of men on a dock were pointing in the direction of the destroyed tree. Sicarius jogged back to see if Basilard was indeed safe.

  As Sicarius approached, Basilard shimmied down the trunk of the nearest standing tree. He appeared unharmed, though he offered a sheepish shrug and retrieved his cap. That was lucky.

  “Indeed.” Sicarius watched the creature as it continued to swim. It wasn’t heading to the yacht club after all. Recalling the theory about the ancient aircraft hiding on the lake bottom, he wondered if the construct would disappear beneath the waves, swimming down to join an underwater master. But would Forge be working with Nurians? Their plans were to support Ravido, not assassinate him.

  Where’s it going?

  The size of its head kept it in view for several moments, and Sicarius guessed it had swum a couple of miles before it finally faded from sight. In that time, it didn’t dip below the surface. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the Forge people. He considere
d the direction it had been swimming. Southwest. He’d run around the entire lake enough times to know the geography by heart. “In the winter, there’s an ice harvesting camp over there,” he said, remembering a mission he and Amaranthe had shared there once. “It’s too early in the season for that though.” He nodded toward the few inches of frozen crust at the edge of the lake.

  I know the settlement of which you speak, Basilard signed. There are permanent log dwellings. Perhaps someone has moved in. Such as a Nurian wizard.

  Sicarius thought about jogging out to investigate, but it would take a few hours, roundtrip, and he still needed to talk to Amaranthe and share that letter with her. And the pastry. He admitted it irked him slightly that she’d been too busy to talk privately to him, but he wouldn’t want to push Sespian aside for something that might be insignificant.

  Mancrest may know if someone is over there, Basilard added.

  Sicarius didn’t let any reaction onto his face at the mention of the name, but Basilard gave him a sidelong look anyway.

  He is a handsome man. Do you fear he will…

  Basilard’s hands faltered, hanging in midair as Sicarius gave him his most quelling glare. He did not wish to discuss the possibility of a relationship between Deret and Amaranthe. That would not happen.

  Basilard diffidently finished with, …print news of your relationship to Sespian if he learns the truth?

  “He is not the one most likely to do that,” Sicarius said.

  Have you seen Books’s documents? What he proposes in this new government?

  “No.” Sicarius didn’t know what Basilard’s topic shift implied, but, after one last look toward the lake, he headed toward the city.

  Basilard walked beside him. Among other things, he suggests an elected official take the role of emperor. Rulers that go in and out of office every few years. Though the Turgonian empire has problems as it is, at least in the eyes of the rest of the world, I know that if Sespian returns as emperor, I have a chance at having an advocate for my people’s concerns. An unknown has no reason to help me. I do not know if I’d wish to fight for this.

  So, Basilard was thinking of leaving the team if they couldn’t get Sespian onto the throne. Why divulge this to him? Maybe he thought Sicarius had some insight into Sespian’s thoughts. Or maybe Basilard simply thought they had bonded in the tree and should now be divulging secrets. Right.

  “Understood,” Sicarius said, because Basilard’s continuing glances meant he expected an answer. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

  • • •

  Though daylight had come, it had not yet permeated the darkness in the factory. On his way in, Sicarius had spotted Maldynado taking a turn at watch on the rooftop, but everyone inside seemed to be sleeping. Basilard had gone straight to his bedroll. A few occupied blankets lay on the cement floor near a back wall covered with pipes. Stacks of books edged a couple of them—Books and Akstyr’s areas. Sicarius recalled a mention of private offices upstairs, so he glided past the snorers without rousing anyone, heading for the nearest set of metal steps.

  On the wall near the base of the staircase, a recently used mop hung from a peg, a bucket upturned to dry beneath it. He wished Amaranthe had been sleeping instead of cleaning, but the damp implements didn’t surprise him.

  The stairs led to a wide landing and catwalks allowing access to giant vats and two- and three-story-high machinery. On the left, there were three offices with windows and closed doors. In a less olfactory-dense environment, he might have been able to identify which room belonged to which team member before entering, but the pungent odor of syrupy molasses, mingled with hints of sugar beets and alcohol, dominated the air, even weeks after the factory had closed for work. Fortunately, the last office offered another clue: a clean window. Trusting it marked the spot Amaranthe had claimed, he strode toward it.

  Sicarius entered soundlessly—if she’d managed to achieve sleep, he did not wish to disturb it. Her blanket was stretched on the floor behind an old metal desk. She wasn’t lying on the blanket; rather she was hunched in a ball on one end, leaning against a rickety filing cabinet. Though her eyes were closed, distressed mumbles came from her lips. Her hands twitched, clasping and unclasping the blanket.

  Sicarius closed the door and considered whether to wake her or simply leave the letter and the pastry on the desk. Had her sleep appeared restful, he would have done the later, but perhaps she’d appreciate an escape from whatever nightmare haunted her.

  On the journey to Stumps, after they’d been forced to abandon the steamboat, the team had camped in the woods each night, many people shivering under shared blankets to stave off the late autumn cold. Amaranthe had refused to sleep with the group, not wanting to disturb anyone with her rough nights—or perhaps not wanting anyone to know she had rough nights. As if that were possible with everyone living in close quarters—she and Yara had been roommates on that boat before it sank. Sicarius, of course, had known. Requiring little sleep himself, he was often up at night anyway. He’d thought of going to her, offering a shoulder to lean on or whatever else she might wish, but whenever she’d seen him watching her, she’d been quick to proclaim herself fine. Fit to fight. Perhaps he’d focused too much on training in the last year, for she seemed to think that was all he ever had on his mind. He’d done little to show her otherwise, he admitted. He didn’t know how.

  Sicarius set the items on the desk, intending to leave, but Amaranthe’s twitches and mutters grew more agitated, more pronounced. She gasped, blurting a clear, “Don’t! Please, not again. I—I can’t tell. I won’t.”

  He padded to her corner. He doubted it was in his capacity to help her, but he would try.

  “Amaranthe,” he murmured, touching her shoulder.

  She cringed inward, tucking into a tighter ball, burying her head in her arms.

  Though he knew she wasn’t experiencing the here and now, and the gesture didn’t signify fear of him, it stung anyway, having her shy away from him. Once it wouldn’t have mattered. Once he’d expected that response from everyone and had not cared whether he received it or not.

  Sicarius sat down beside her, his shoulder to her back. Face to her knees, she only muttered, “No, no,” over and over.

  “I suppose telling you it’s dawn and time to train would only evoke a similar response,” he said.

  He didn’t expect the comment to pierce her dreams and was mulling over ways to wake her without distressing her further, but her head jerked up, eyelids springing open, her hand clutching her chest. Sitting with his arm against her back, he could feel her heart slamming against her ribcage.

  “Train?” Amaranthe blinked, confusion crinkling her brow. Her eyes focused on him, and she gulped, lowering her hand.

  “Not now,” Sicarius said. “Everyone is sleeping after the late night. You should go back to sleep too. A more restful version.”

  Amaranthe winced. “Sorry, did you hear me?” She glanced at the door, as if fearing her outcries had been audible throughout the factory.

  “Not until I came in.”

  “Oh.” She drew away from his arm, eyeing his position on the edge of her blankets.

  There was a time, Sicarius thought, sighing inwardly, when she would have been pleased to see him sitting so close with blankets spread out beneath them. She would have made self-deprecating jokes, or perhaps teased him playfully, all the while looking up at with him with hopeful eyes, wondering if perhaps he’d be interested in doing more than simply talking.

  It was your choice never to act on those opportunities, Sicarius reminded himself. Now, she merely looked uncertain. And self-conscious.

  Amaranthe scraped her hair away from her face, pushing locks behind her ears. The windows weren’t the only things she’d washed before bed—her face and hands were clean of the grime from the Gazette explosions. The scent of her almond bark and cherry blossom shampoo teased his nostrils. After the restless sleep, her garments were in disarray. Though few would categorize long un
derwear as sexy, his gaze snagged on the skin exposed between waistband and shirt. That was clean, too—he removed his gaze and kept his attention from deeper contemplations of that skin and surrounding… skin.

  “You had news, right?” Amaranthe rubbed her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She waited expectantly.

  “I will deliver it in three hours.”

  “What’s happening in three hours?” Amaranthe asked.

  “I will deliver my news.”

  She snorted. “I mean, what’s happening now and for the next three hours that will delay this delivery?”

  “You’re going back to sleep.”

  “Erg, I think I’ve had enough of that.”

  “You require more than two hours to function optimally as team leader.” Yes, he told himself, keep saying things like that. That’s what’ll teach her to relax in your presence. “I will stand guard to ensure your sleep is restful.” There, maybe that was a little better?

  “Oh, really?”

  Good. She looked intrigued, despite his tactless way of letting her know he was concerned for her and wished her to find peaceful rest. There’d been so few times in his life when he’d attempted to appear inviting that he didn’t know how to manage it, but he lifted an arm, hoping it would be enough.

  “Hm.” Amaranthe rearranged the blankets, shifted her body so they faced the same direction, and slid in under his arm. After a tentative glance at his face, she slipped her arms around his torso. Mostly. The dagger collection gave her trouble as she tried to avoid being poked by hilts. “Do you always climb into women’s beds with all your weapons bristling?”

  A few Maldynado-esque comments floated into his mind, but Sicarius squashed them. He’d been spending far too much time in close proximity to that man this last year. He thought about explaining the soul construct and his trip to Fort Urgot, but he wanted her to sleep. Any talk of work would convince her it was time to start the day. “It would be amateurish of me to stand guard without them.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking? I’ll just… make do.”