Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  The illumination from the janitor’s lantern didn’t reach the alcove. With no other choice, Amaranthe risked unveiling a sliver of her own light. The periodicals and newspapers were organized by date rather than author contribution, so she checked the books first. She doubted Suan had taken the time to write a three-hundred-page epic on economics before heading off on her adventures, but one never knew. And the books were alphabetized.

  Curlev, read a name on the spine of a narrow tome.

  Surprised but pleased, Amaranthe slid it out. It wasn’t something published via the academic presses, but a hand-written treatise in a leather-bound journal. The title, inked on the front, read, The Distribution of Wealth in Modern Day Turgonia.

  It must be nice to be so brilliant that one’s final-year report was set aside in a special spot in the library. Amaranthe could understand why Retta had been jealous of her older sister.

  She tucked the journal under her arm and shuttered her lantern again. About to step out of the alcove, she halted when the light flickered ahead. The wooden floorboards creaked. This time the janitor was definitely moving.

  Hidden by the shadows, she remained stationary, though she glanced at the door. Out in the hallway, there weren’t many places for Yara to hide, unless she ran all the way back to the stairwell.

  The janitor walked into view and… wasn’t a janitor at all. Dressed in black army fatigues with lieutenant’s tabs on his collars, the man headed for the door. The jangling she’d heard hadn’t been keys at all, but ammo pouches and other military appurtenances hanging from his belt, including a dagger and a pistol. He didn’t wear a colored armband to link him to any of the current factions.

  So what was he doing here? And where was the janitor?

  The lieutenant strode into the hallway, and Amaranthe held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t spot Yara. His footsteps faded into distance down the hall without any pauses to investigate something breaking their even rhythm.

  Amaranthe started for the door, but curiosity steered her feet toward the aisle the lieutenant had vacated. He’d taken his lantern with him, so she risked opening hers a sliver again. All save one of the tables were empty. The closest one held a single book, left open to an index. Careful not to lose the page, she lifted it to check the title.

  The title blurred into insignificance before she read it. It was the author that commanded her attention. Worgavic. Neeth Worgavic.

  So. Someone had figured out the name of at least one of the Forge founders and had come to do research. At that point, Amaranthe didn’t know whether this was good or bad for her. If it meant someone else was angling to take out Forge, that might be good. If it meant another of the factions wanted to ally with Forge for a chance at some of those weapons, that might be less good.

  “Hsst,” came a soft voice from the end of the aisle.

  Amaranthe replaced the book on the table.

  “He’s gone to the WC,” Yara said. “He’ll be back in a second.”

  “Right, let’s get out of here then.”

  They didn’t make it out of the library before the lieutenant returned, but hid in the alcove until he’d gone back to his reading. A part of Amaranthe wanted to question him, but a bigger part wanted to make sure nobody saw her at the school, not until she’d completed her infiltration of Forge and no longer needed to be able to pass as Suan Curlev.

  She and Yara eased out of the building unnoticed. They jogged into the city, taking a circuitous route back to the factory to make sure they weren’t followed.

  • • •

  Sicarius led Sespian, Maldynado, and Basilard across the dark field toward the towering walls of Fort Urgot. After their training session, Sespian had asked Basilard to join them. Sicarius did not know if they’d struck up some affinity with each other, or if Sespian had merely wanted more people around to lessen the chances of ending up isolated with a father he felt awkward around. Logically, Sicarius could not expect any other reaction, given their history and his life’s work, but the thoughts roused disappointment nonetheless.

  The sun had set a couple of hours earlier, but there were no culverts or hollows to hug on the flat, cleared parade fields that extended for a half mile in each direction from the fort. The cloudy sky promised snow, but none had fallen yet, a fortunate circumstance. Sneaking up to the walls on bright white ground would have been close to impossible. They’d have a challenge even without snow. Though he and the others wore black, with their knapsacks and climbing ropes also made from dark material, alert guards in the towers perched along the walls might pick out movement on the stark field. Mortars and rapid-fire cannons were mounted along the parapet in between the towers, and soldiers strode back and forth up there, more men than usual for the fort, which, this deep into imperial territory, had rarely seen action in the last couple of centuries.

  Lanterns burned in some of the towers, and Sicarius picked an illuminated one for their approach. The night vision of whoever stood watch inside should be dulled by the nearby flames. Staying low, he and his team closed on the base of the wall.

  In the darkness, hand signs were useless, but he’d already told the others he’d go up first, take care of the nearest guards, then signal for them to follow. He wasn’t expecting anyone to attempt communication, with soldiers roaming about a mere twenty feet above their heads, but, after he’d unslung his rope and grappling hook, someone gripped his arm. Sespian.

  He leaned close to whisper in Sicarius’s ear, “You can’t kill anyone, if we’re to have any chance with Ridgecrest.”

  An obvious statement—these were the very men Sespian hoped to make his own, after all. Sicarius didn’t allow himself to feel irked at this unnecessary reminder. He simply returned the grip, not wishing to speak with men so close above, then drew away to give himself room to toss the grappling hook.

  He tilted an ear toward the parapet, listening for footsteps and the clanks of weapon-laden utility belts. Fortunately, his own men remained still and silent, and did not issue any competing noises. Muted voices drifted on the wind, coming from the guard tower to the north, the lighted one. Not a sound came from the one to the south, a dark one. Once he topped the wall, he’d check that one first. With two men stationed in each tower, it was unlikely anyone was asleep on duty. No, those two were probably the more attentive. Though he understood why killing wasn’t an option here, the practical part of his mind lamented it, for it was much faster than subduing. He’d have to move quickly to gag and tie the men before others spotted him. Amaranthe, he knew, would have had Maldynado and Basilard go up at the same time he did, trusting their stealthiness and capabilities, but Sicarius trusted his own abilities more.

  The footsteps he was waiting for grew audible. Two sets. These were the roving guards for this, the north wall. When he and Basilard had scouted the fort the night before, Sicarius had counted how long it took the men to complete each pass. He’d have approximately ninety-five seconds before they walked this way again.

  After the footsteps faded from hearing, he waited five more seconds, then swung the grappling hook, releasing it at the apex. For a moment, its prongs were outlined against the cloudy sky above, then it disappeared over the parapet. Thanks to padded tips, the clank as it landed on stone was muted. Not completely silent, though, and Sicarius’s ears had no trouble picking it up.

  He gave one quick tug to test the line, then skimmed up the rope, reaching the top in a couple of seconds. Though his ears promised him no one waited above, he paused for a quick glance in either direction, and also toward the brick buildings and walkways inside the fort. In a grassy square lined with streetlamps and bare trees, several whitewashed wooden houses stood—the homes of the high-ranking officers stationed here. General Ridgecrest’s family should live in one of them.

  As he took in these details, Sicarius released the grappling hook for the others to catch—he’d leave no telltale sign of his arrival on the wall. Then he skimmed down the walkway toward the dark tower.

 
; The stout wooden door stood closed, but there wasn’t any glass in the windows overlooking the fields. Sicarius leaped onto the wall, fingers finding grips in the mortar between the stones, and, like a spider, he crawled around to the closest opening. As he’d guessed, two soldiers waited inside. Nobody was sleeping. They were standing with their backs to him, one pointing toward the ground outside the other window, one lifting a rifle.

  Sicarius’s gut clenched. They were aiming at the spot where he’d left the others. Sespian.

  He launched himself into the room, his black dagger finding its way into his hand. Instincts told him to ram the blade into the man’s back, to the left of the spine, between the ribs, to find his heart. At the last instant, he flipped the weapon in his hand and shifted targets. He slammed the hilt into the soldier’s head, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and thrust his face into the stone wall. When flesh met unyielding granite, the man crumpled. Sicarius tore the rifle out of his hands before it could clatter against anything.

  The second man spun in his direction, but he moved too slowly. Sicarius slammed his elbow into his solar plexus. He gasped and bent, staggering backward. The soldier tried to yank out the pistol at his belt. His hand never reached the weapon. Sicarius swung the butt of the rifle upward, clunking him beneath the chin. The man jerked backward and toppled to the ground. Clothing rasped against the stone floor—the first man trying to grab a knife at his waist. Sicarius stepped on his windpipe to discourage further struggles and pulled out his gags and ties. While keeping an eye on the second man—he’d gone down hard and wasn’t moving—Sicarius bound the first. Aware of the heartbeats passing—and the footfalls as the roving guards approached—he tied the knots as swiftly as possible, again reminded why his instructors had simply instilled in him the instinct to kill. He could have nullified every guard on the wall in the time it was taking him to subdue two.

  As he moved onto tying the second person, the footfalls stopped outside the door. The roving guards didn’t usually check inside the towers. They must have seen or heard something. A soft clank sounded, the latch releasing.

  Sicarius tied the last knot and leaped for the window. The door swung open. He scurried around the outside of the building, using the bulk of the open door to hide his return to the parapet.

  “What?” one of the guards blurted.

  It was all he got out before Sicarius landed behind them, bringing the hilt of his dagger down onto the speaker’s head as he dropped. The blunt end struck the coronal structure hard enough to cause the soldier to stagger forward, gasping in pain and confusion, but not hard enough to kill him. Before his comrade could whirl about, Sicarius pinched his fingers together into an arrow shape and dug them into the pressure point near the man’s kidney. Trusting the pain to be intense, he snaked his free hand around the soldier’s head, flattening it against the mouth. With those hard fingers jabbed into his back, the man staggered into the tower on his tiptoes. His back arched as he tried to squirm out of the iron grip. Using his boot, Sicarius tugged the door shut behind him. He bound and gagged the standing soldier, then attended to the second.

  With four men now subdued in the guard tower, he returned to the rest of his team and signaled for them to climb up. While they did so, Sicarius took down the soldiers in the lit tower using similar methods. When he returned, Sespian, Basilard, and Maldynado waited in low crouches, hugging the shadows between the towers. They’d wound up the rope and grapple and were ready to move on.

  “If nobody escapes,” Sicarius whispered, “and nobody checks the towers before the shift change, we’ll have two hours before anyone notices security has been compromised.”

  “What happens if they do escape?” Sespian asked.

  Sicarius admitted that was a possibility. For all that he’d tied the knots tightly, the men would have nothing else to do but work on freeing themselves. “We’ll have less time.”

  Maldynado grunted at this statement of the obvious. “We just have to get to Ridgecrest and convince him to have a chat with us. If we’re having cider in his office with him, nobody’s going to start shooting at us. He’s got a wife and a couple of teenage daughters, too, if we need them.”

  “Are you suggesting we use hostages to arrange our escape from the fort?” Sespian asked, his tone oozing disapproval. For once, it wasn’t aimed at Sicarius.

  “Uhm, no?” Maldynado said. It sounded like a lie, but then he smiled and added, “I figure they’ll fall in love with me after I’ve been flirting with them for a while, and they’ll help us escape of their own volition.”

  “If we stop talking, we can get in and out without anyone but Ridgecrest knowing we’re here.” To announce the conversation at an end, Sicarius left them, trotting for a stone staircase leading into the streets below.

  He kept an eye out as they traversed the fort, sticking to unlit alleys as he picked a path toward the officers’ houses. It was past bedtime, but not so late that nobody would be about, and he paused, waiting for more than one person to pass. During peacetime, many officers and senior enlisted soldiers, especially those who were married, stayed in the city, bicycling or jogging to work each morning. But now, with the capital poised for battle, those who were stationed here were sleeping on base, and lights burned behind many of the barracks windows. The armory and several supply and office buildings were lit as well with people working late. Every bicycle rack was occupied and military-style steam carriages and lorries were parked before the senior officers’ houses.

  They reached the grassy square, and Sicarius headed for the largest house. The first snowflakes drifted down from the sky.

  Sespian jogged a few steps and caught up with Sicarius, matching pace, perhaps wanting to be the first person General Ridgecrest saw. Without knowing where Ridgecrest stood—just because he wasn’t eager to jump into bed with Ravido didn’t mean he’d be delighted to see the emperor he’d thought dead—Sicarius had no intention of letting him walk in first, nor would he knock on the door as if they were coming for a friendly chat. It was possible that force or manipulation would be required to win the general’s hand—and his agreement to turn over Fort Urgot to Sespian. This was a man they should catch off-guard.

  “We must conclude our business swiftly,” Sicarius said. It wasn’t in his nature to start conversations that had little purpose, but he felt the need to try with Sespian. As Amaranthe had pointed out, if he never said anything, how was his son to get to know him? “The snow will make it hard to stay hidden at night.”

  “Swift sounds good to me,” Maldynado said. “It’s getting cold out here. My brother should have waited until summer to try and take over the empire.”

  Sicarius leveled a cool stare over his shoulder. He hadn’t intended his words to be an invitation for Maldynado to participate in a conversation with him. Maldynado didn’t notice the stare. He was sniggering over some response Basilard had signed.

  A hint of laughter drifted to Sicarius’s ears, and he lifted a hand to alert the team. He led them into the shadows between two trees. Engaging Sespian in conversation would have to wait until later.

  They’d drawn near the largest house. A gas lamp burned on the porch, lighting a sign that read Lord General Ridgecrest.

  They’d reached the right place, but two figures were turning off the street and heading up the walkway to the house. One wore an officer’s pressed black fatigues, but the other sashayed along in an ankle-length dress and woman’s parka. One of Ridgecrest’s daughters?

  The two advanced to the porch, talking and giggling, their heads bent toward each other. Sicarius settled on his haunches to wait, expecting the young man to drop his lady off, then leave. But they went from talking and giggling to kissing and giggling. Bundled up for the weather, they didn’t seem to notice the cold.

  “If I’d known we were going to get a show,” Maldynado whispered, “I would have brought candied pecans and a flask of cider.”

  Basilard elbowed him.

  Sespian was avert
ing his eyes from the display. “Maybe we can go in the back?”

  “Yes.” Sicarius had been eyeing the towers on the wall, thinking of their limited time. “Maldynado and Basilard, stay here.” He slipped out his lock-picking kit. “Warn us if someone comes or…” He waved at the kissing couple, meaning he wanted an alert if they entered the house.

  Maldynado chose to misconstrue the unfinished sentence. “The show gets better?”

  Sicarius gave him a hard look, but a brief one. They had work to do. “Sespian, come.”

  The darkness cloaked Sespian’s expression, but there was a stiff set to his shoulders as he followed. He must not be accustomed to being ordered around. For Sicarius, he either issued commands or followed the orders of others, those rare few who had earned his respect. He didn’t know how to relate to people outside of that realm. He’d called Sespian “Sire” when it had applied, but it had been difficult giving that reverence to a youth, and he found it hard to do so now.

  They reached the back deck and Sicarius tried the door, found it locked, and knelt to work. This side of the house lay in shadows, just as he preferred. Sespian shuffled to the side to watch the street behind the square. The snow had picked up and a layer dusted his shoulders.

  “Do you know how to pick a lock?” Sicarius murmured.

  “My how-to-be-an-emperor lessons didn’t cover it.”

  The answer didn’t invite further questions, but Sicarius tried anyway. “Do you wish to learn?”

  Sespian didn’t answer. He might have been mulling over the question or ignoring it.

  Sicarius’s inclination would have been to work in silence, but he launched into instructions, softly explaining what he was doing as he maneuvered a pick and tension tool. He probably could have found an unlocked second-story window, but on the chance Sespian might appreciate learning a new skill, he pressed on.

  “Hunting and fishing,” Sespian said at the end of the explanation.