Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  He followed the apex of the sloping roof to the other side. According to the tracks, the intruders had leaped off the roof, but the paths below were packed with dozens of bootprints as well as the heavy tire treads from the vehicles that had driven to the dock. Picking out a fresh trail would be difficult.

  Sicarius crouched on the edge of the roof, scanning the camp and again testing the air for some telltale scent. By this point, he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t see the intruders. They were either very good, or they had some trinket that bent the light waves around them, rendering them invisible. But if he could determine their goal, he could guess their location.

  Kill him? No, they were avoiding him.

  The working men had to be the target, Sicarius decided—it would be obvious to a Nurian observer that he was fashioning a trap for the soul construct, and as the wizard’s employees, they’d want to stop that.

  He hopped down from the cabin, watching Wodic and Mederak, as well as the crane operator, for any sign of alarm as he approached. Hard at work, they might not notice an attacker until a blade was slipping between their ribs. Sicarius also watched the snow around the trap, hoping he’d catch the indentation of a footprint as it was being made in a patch of soft powder.

  If it were he, he’d stand back and shoot arrows into the laborers from afar. The Nurian he’d seen in the army camp had been wearing a bow. But Sicarius returned to the workers without anyone being attacked. Maybe the Nurians believed time was on their side, thanks to their camouflage. Or maybe they believed destroying the trap—or keeping it from being completed—was the priority, thus ensuring nobody else from the capital could come out and complete the work. Already, the bottom and three sides were attached, the walls standing erect in the air, and his sketch was on the seat next to the crane operator, so someone could theoretically finish the task.

  The crane.

  Without it, nobody would be able to move the trap once it was finished. On land, it’d never fool the soul construct.

  Sicarius ran around the steel walls, using them to hide his approach, and scooped up an armful of snow on his way to the crane’s cab. The scent of blood flooded his nostrils. Before he bounded up the side of the vehicle, he knew what he’d find. The driver was slumped in his seat, head lolled back, blood gushing from his slashed throat.

  Sicarius hurled the armful of snow. For an instant, the powder outlined a figure gripping the crane controls, preparing to steer the vehicle into the lake. It reacted instantly, spinning toward him, but he was already leaping for the invisible person, his dagger in hand. Whatever device protected the intruder, it compensated for the thrown snow, and the white outline disappeared. But Sicarius had already closed the distance and caught a fistful of clothing, part of a fur cloak. He’d intended to grab the man’s arm, to pull him off balance, and slip his dagger into the lung, but the Nurian recovered and backed away too quickly. The noisy vehicle drowned out sounds, so Sicarius couldn’t hear the rustle of clothing that might have signified an attack, and only the tug at the cloak and his familiarity with Nurian combat styles prepared him for the jab-straight-punch combination that was typical.

  He blocked both, one-handed, sight unseen. Before his opponent could add a hook, he glided to the side, pulling on the cloak with his free hand and adding a leg sweep to further distract the man. As fast as Sicarius’s movements were, the Nurian might have countered effectively, but he bumped into one of the control levers. The crane lurched forward, and the cab floor jerked beneath them. This time Sicarius succeeded in grabbing the invisible man’s arm and forcing it up. He slipped his dagger in beneath it.

  As the intruder cried out, Sicarius’s nose caught a whiff of a hard-boiled egg on someone’s breath. It was the only warning he received. Pulling his dagger out of the first man’s torso, Sicarius dropped to the floor. He threw the weapon even as he rolled for the opening on the opposite side of the cab. A moist thunk sounded—metal driving into flesh. Hard.

  He came to his feet, facing into the cab, a throwing knife in hand. Both men were still invisible, so he made his best guess and hurled the second weapon. It halted in mid-air and disappeared. They’d both landed, but not accurately enough, for a thump sounded, someone jumping down into the snow.

  Sicarius ran to the side of the cab, tempted to leap out in pursuit, but if he were in the other man’s place, he’d pause down there to throw a knife of his own. Instead of exposing himself, he used the frame of the vehicle to hide his body and watched the ground for newly forming footprints. Again the oft-trampled snow made it hard to spot them, but droplets of blood gave away the intruder.

  Several new droplets fell, and Sicarius, envisioning the throwing motion that might have caused it, ducked behind the frame. A blade appeared in midair, then clanged off the metal, an inch from his eyes. Before it clattered to the floor of the cab, he was hurling his own knife. Again, it disappeared behind that field of invisibility, but this time a pained gasp sounded, and something heavy flopped to the ground. More than droplets stained the snow now.

  Sicarius checked both men to make sure they were dead before cleaning off his knives and sheathing them. He was aware of Wodic and Mederak standing a few meters away, gaping, but did not say anything until he’d walked a perimeter of the camp, ensuring no other new sets of tracks had appeared.

  “There is a wizard.” Mederak nudged one of the invisible bodies with his boot.

  “Mr. Sicarius wouldn’t lie.” Wodic had climbed into the cab to check on the driver. He shook his head and muttered something to himself. “We’ll have to tell his family and see if they want to do a funeral pyre out here or—”

  “Tomorrow,” Sicarius said. “We must finish the trap before dark, or we’ll have a much bigger problem than invisible Nurian bodyguards.” In truth, he didn’t know if they had until dark. Just because he’d only encountered the soul constructs at night or dawn in the past didn’t prove they couldn’t travel during the day.

  Mederak’s gaze drifted toward the lake, in the direction of the city. “Not getting paid for this,” he muttered, too low for most people to hear, but Sicarius had good ears. “Better to—”

  Wodic thumped him on the back, silencing him. “We’re with you,” he told Sicarius.

  It was odd to have this stranger’s loyalty. Oh, he understood it was due to his and Amaranthe’s actions the winter before, but she wasn’t here, and the man was still willing to give that loyalty to Sicarius. Few ever had unless it’d been out of fear or a desire to fawn, that too usually having a fear component. This fellow simply seemed to believe he owed a favor.

  “Let’s get this last side up and the top on.” Sicarius waved to the partially assembled trap. “I’ll operate the crane.”

  As he climbed up into the cab, a boom drifted across the lake, and he paused, cocking an ear.

  “What was that?” Wodic rotated around, trying to locate the source.

  “The wizard?” Mederak asked in a tone that said he’d rather chew his foot off than have that be the case.

  “No,” Sicarius said. Distance and the snow made it hard to pinpoint the source, but his trained ears knew it had come from the north. When gunshots started seconds later—a lot of gunshots—he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. “It’s Fort Urgot. Heroncrest’s army is attacking.”

  Sicarius closed his eyes. Now Sespian was in danger from more than the soul construct.

  Chapter 18

  “This is the right corridor, isn’t it?” Amaranthe whispered.

  “Yes,” Books said. “I believe so.”

  Amaranthe wished he hadn’t voiced the addendum. They’d both memorized the map before leaving the control room, but the three-dimensional, multilevel display had been a different type of cartography than they were accustomed to, and all the tunnels looked the same. She and Books walked shoulder-to-shoulder, passing identical tall, narrow doors with identical runes that brightened into visibility when one of them drew close.

  “I am certain we’re on the
correct floor,” Books added.

  Good, that narrowed the searchable area down to twenty or thirty million square feet. “The entrance was at the end of a dead-end corridor, I remember that at least.”

  “There’s an intersection,” Books said as they rounded a curve. “I believe we go left.”

  “Which left? There are three of them. And two rights. These people weren’t into simple.”

  “That I could have told you after a second of looking at their language.”

  “They must never have heard that old saying,” Amaranthe said, “about any dolt being capable of complicating matters and true genius lying in making a thing simple.” She herself struggled to keep her plans simple. That probably said something about her, but she didn’t want to examine it too closely.

  “Most likely not, since they visited our world tens of thousands of years before Scribe Ilya Yaro of the South Gaolas wrote that platitude.”

  “Good point.”

  With her finger on the trigger of one of the acquired rifles, Amaranthe eased her head around the corner and peered down each corridor before committing herself. They hadn’t seen anyone since they’d left the control room floor, but if Mia had guards with her, they couldn’t assume all the hallways would be empty. Further, a familiarity to this intersection nagged at her senses. Had she passed through it on her way into or out of the Behemoth the last time? She couldn’t remember; the only events that were distinct in her mind from that week were ones she wished she could forget.

  “I think it’s that left.” Books pointed to the closest one.

  Amaranthe led the way, passing several widely spaced doors before stopping a few meters in front of the one at the end. A wave of apprehension washed over her. She’d been in that exact spot before, she was certain of it. Books passed her, heading to the last door, but she couldn’t seem to move her feet. She looked left, then right, then left again.

  “Hm,” Books said from the end of the corridor, “perhaps we should have arranged for Retta to open it for us.” He waved his hand, and runes lit up beside the door, but he’d have to press or twist or dance naked enticingly in front of one in the right way before they’d be let inside.

  “I don’t think this is the right hall.” Amaranthe put a hand on the smooth, cold wall, trying to control her breathing. All these corridors looked the same—why was she so sure she’d been down this one before?

  “I was watching her open the cabinets,” Books mused, his back to Amaranthe. He didn’t seem to have heard her. “I think she pushed this rune in and twisted it.” His fingers moved as he spoke, gestures mimicking words.

  The door slid open. Books stepped inside, his rifle at the ready. A sick feeling weighed down Amaranthe’s stomach, but she rushed after him. If he was right and this was the correct room, he would need help handling the guards.

  As soon as she crossed the threshold, though, she knew it wasn’t the right spot. She clenched her eyes shut, but it was too late: she’d already seen the surgeon’s table, the articulating tool that could swing down from the ceiling, and that blasted crate was still there too.

  “I guess it was the other left,” Books said and turned around. He halted. “Are you… Amaranthe, what is it?”

  Amaranthe barely saw him. She’d opened her eyes, but only to focus on the floor. She’d lowered to a crouch, hand braced against the wall as memories of her time spent on that table and in that crate washed over her.

  She tried to push them away—logically, she knew that what had happened was past now—but they refused to be cast aside. They were as vivid in her mind as if she were living the moments again.

  A hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Amaranthe?”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t look up, couldn’t risk seeing that cursed table again.

  Books lifted her to her feet and turn her around. She stumbled, but he didn’t let her fall. Back in the corridor, he fiddled with the runes until the door shut. Amaranthe wanted more finality than that; she wanted that whole room burnt to the ground. No, the whole cursed vessel.

  “I assume you have some familiarity with that chamber.” Books’s consoling pat on her shoulder was awkward. He probably couldn’t tell if she’d want a hug or to be left alone. “Shall we try the next corridor?” he asked.

  Yes, moving on with the mission. That was a good idea. If only Amaranthe could lift her eyes and get her feet to move. “I just need a moment,” she croaked.

  “Of course.”

  Amaranthe focused on the tip of her rifle, not because it had any curative qualities—hardly that—but it was an object in the present, something to fixate on long enough to clear her head.

  “As long as we’re bringing up old platitudes,” Books said, “perhaps I should remind you that the strongest, finest metals are created through the heating and hammering of raw ore.”

  Amaranthe felt more like slag than fine metal at the moment, but she’d managed to bring her mind back to the present, and she didn’t want to dwell on that room any longer. “Let’s just check that other hallway, eh?”

  Later she’d thank him for being there, but she felt foolish for falling apart and wanted to put some distance between herself and the moment.

  Books let his hand drop from her shoulder, and he led the way back to the intersection and into the other corridor. “Ready?” he asked before touching the runes that lit up.

  Amaranthe took a deep breath and lifted the rifle to her shoulder. “Ready.”

  Books replicated the twisting of the rune. Nothing happened. He tried again, but the door didn’t open.

  “That’s the same thing I did for the other one,” he said. “She must have locked it somehow.”

  “Makes sense. I wouldn’t want rabid gunmen charging in behind me while I was working.” Amaranthe debating how far knocking might get them while Books tried a couple of the other runes.

  Without warning, the door slid sideways, disappearing into the wall. Amaranthe didn’t know whether Books had stumbled onto the unlocking mechanism of if Retta was watching their progress and had done something, but she charged in without waiting for those inside to figure out they had visitors. Books ran in beside her.

  Earlier, there might have been two guards represented by the blips on the image, but there were four inside now, two by the door, and two by Mia who was poking and prodding at a wall full of diagrams.

  Amaranthe shot the closest guard before he could bring his own weapon to bear, aiming at his thigh instead of his heart. Without waiting to make sure she’d hit him, she aimed for a second, one of the men by Mia. As soon as she fired, she dropped to one knee, knowing the other guards would be targeting her by then too. Good choice, for a bullet soon zipped over her head. Another clanged off the wall beside Books.

  Similar to the control room, the chamber had no furniture and nothing to hide behind. Though she felt cowardly doing so, Amaranthe grabbed the closest man, the one she’d shot in the leg, and used him for cover while she lined up her next target. His high-pitched curses in her ear made her regret the choice. Before she could shoot again, Books, who had already disarmed the other door guard, charged toward Mia’s second protector. The guard focused on him instead of Amaranthe. She took advantage, firing for a third time, and the bullet slammed into his knee. His scream shattered the air as surely as his kneecap shattered in his leg. She grimaced, wishing for a more humanitarian method, but at least the guards were alive. Perhaps later, they could be treated with that healing device Retta had used.

  For now, all Amaranthe did was grab the rifle from the man by the door, then jog toward Mia. With both of her guards writhing on the floor, the woman should have spun back to face her attackers or, even smarter, raced off to escape again, but Books had to grab her arms and drag her away from her work.

  “Unhand me, you benighted vandal,” she cried.

  “Benighted?” Books managed to look indignant while he was gripping the woman beneath her armpits and dancing to avoid having his foot stomped o
n. “I assure you I’m neither benighted nor a vandal.”

  Amaranthe kicked the rifle away from the last guard on the floor, the one whose kneecap she’d destroyed. She wished there was a way to lock everybody in the room, rather than worrying about tying up another group. Maybe they could—

  “Look out,” Books barked.

  Amaranthe lunged to the side. A shot fired. Bewildered, she glanced about. She’d collected all the rifles.

  One of the guards by the door had risen to one knee. Blood saturated his trouser leg, but he had a pistol pointed at Books, smoke wafting from the barrel. Amaranthe didn’t know if he had another shot in the weapon, but she wasn’t going to risk it. Without thinking, she lifted her own rifle and fired. This time, the bullet took him in the chest, and he tumbled backward, the pistol dropping from his fingers.

  “Books.” Amaranthe spun around, lowering her weapon. “Are you—”

  She swallowed. Seventy-year-old Mia, spectacles still perched on her nose, was staring down at her chest, at the spreading bloodstain on her white blouse. Books was cursing under his breath and blinking rapidly.

  “Dear ancestors, I didn’t mean to use her for a shield,” he said, voice cracking on the last word.

  Amaranthe slumped. She thought to say, “She chose her side,” to alleviate some of Books’s guilt, but she couldn’t. She felt it herself. She’d come here to kidnap the woman, not kill her. If she’d shot to kill the guards in the first place, instead of trying to injure them, this wouldn’t have happened. No, she told herself, rubbing her face, it’d just be someone else dead.

  Books carefully lowered the woman to the floor.

  “Sorry, Books. Let’s… get back to Akstyr and Retta. They may need us. It’s been—”

  The floor vibrated slightly beneath Amaranthe. She braced herself, but that subtle sensation, a faint pulse, was all that came.