by Joseph Lallo
“This creature is likely the work of a Nurian wizard,” Sicarius continued.
“And what would the Nurians have to gain by mauling random people in our capital? An invasion I could see—they’d love all our ore and natural resources, but simple mayhem?”
He did not answer.
Amaranthe stepped off the trail. “We have to get a look at it to tell Akstyr, see if he knows more. It left tracks, so we can follow it.”
“The creature has nothing to do with our goal,” Sicarius said.
“Someone has to stop it or it’ll go on killing people.”
“So?”
She scowled at him. “So, the emperor wouldn’t want his citizens being mutilated by some bloodthirsty monster.”
Since she had stopped running, her body had cooled. Cold air licked through her damp clothes, and she shivered. “Let’s go.”
Amaranthe started up the hill, following the tracks. She had only taken a few steps when Sicarius’s voice halted her.
“No.”
She turned. “No?”
“We cannot fight it.”
“I’m not planning to fight it. We just need to find out what it is we’re dealing with.”
Sicarius pointed at the shredded corpses. “They found out. It killed them. It will not let us walk up, shake its hand, and walk away. If we get close, it’ll kill us too.”
“You’re afraid,” Amaranthe blurted.
As soon as she voiced the words, she regretted it. She had uttered them as a revelation, but they sounded like an accusation. Or a challenge.
Sicarius did not respond, though he stood still, face like stone.
While she could not retract her words, maybe she could soften them. “I do not judge you for it. I merely wonder why, when you seem to fear no one.”
“I have no fear of men. They are soft and easily dispatched. Their creations are more powerful and less predictable. It’s likely our weapons won’t work against it.”
“I understand. And I’m scared too,” Amaranthe said. At least he did not sound angry. She had never seen him lose his temper and never wanted to. “But I think this is tied to our goal. Arbitan Losk had newspapers clippings of every story that’s been printed about this creature, and there’s magic guarding that house, when magic is forbidden in the empire. You and Akstyr both tell me this creature was made with the mental sciences. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“You said nothing to me of the newspaper clippings.”
“No, because you were displaying...snippiness yesterday.”
“Snippiness?” he asked.
“It’s a word.”
“I think not.”
“I’ll ask Books when we get back.” Amaranthe smiled and held out her hand toward the tracks.
“Very well.” Sicarius led the way inland.
As they climbed the incline, the trees near the lake dwindled, replaced by cleared fields around the garrison. The ground leveled to an oft-traversed area used by the soldiers for parades and training, with a pavilion and bleachers in the distance. A nervous twinge ran through Amaranthe. The emperor’s birthday celebration was usually hosted out here. Was it possible the creature was scouting the area?
Hundreds of footprints tamped the snow, and she kept losing the creature’s trail. It took enormous bounds that left wide gaps between the tracks, and its path was not entirely linear. Sicarius followed the intermittent traces with some sense she did not possess.
To the distant left, a road wound up to the front gates of the garrison. Voices counting in unison drifted out—soldiers doing warm-up exercises before their company runs. Across the parade field and up a hill, a water tower rose, its bulk dark and distinct against the brightening sky. The creature’s tracks steered away from the garrison and headed toward the tower.
“Maybe it’s thirsty after all that killing,” Amaranthe said with grim humor. “Though I suppose it could be passing through.”
“No,” Sicarius said. “That is its destination.”
Amaranthe eyed the tracks, wondering at his certainty. “Why a water tower?”
“It’s strategically important.”
“And this would be relevant to the creature because...”
“The tower is always guarded by a couple of men,” Sicarius said.
“Oh,” Amaranthe said. And then, “Oh,” as the true meaning poured over her. “Two targets with no one else around.”
“Precisely.”
A crumbling wall and scattered chunks of brick and concrete littered the hilltop, remains of the original water tower, Amaranthe guessed, likely built before the Turgonians mastered steel production. Four metal columns and a central stem supported the new structure, a gleaming cylindrical tank more than fifty feet high at the top. A squat, windowless hut sat beside it. Smoke billowed from the chimney, and the rumbling of a steam pump reverberated from the walls.
A throwing knife in hand, Sicarius stayed low as he advanced, hugging the ruins. Amaranthe tried not to make noise as she trailed him. If the soldiers on guard were still alive, she did not want to draw their attention. If they were dead and the creature lurked, she did not want to draw its attention either.
Her foot snapped something brittle beneath the snow. Sicarius looked at her.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
After that, she went her own way. He would not appreciate her giving away his position.
She skirted the other side of the ruins. Prints tracked through the snow—first only boots, but soon familiar massive paw marks trod across them.
The only thing we’re going to find up here is more dead soldiers.
The wall ended in a crumbled heap. When Amaranthe moved around the end, she almost stepped on a mauled body. Before stopping to inspect, she glanced around, searching for the killer. The still, white landscape showed her nothing.
This body was worse than the others. An arm and leg had been ripped off, and the face was shredded beyond recognition. Brain matter spilled from the shattered skull and steamed in the chill air. Several yards away, a musket stuck out of a drift, its barrel warped and the stock missing. A dusting of black powder scattered the snow.
“This just happened,” Amaranthe called, struggling for detachment.
“Another body over here,” Sicarius said from the other side of the ruins. “Still twitching. We should leave before—”
The primal screech clutched Amaranthe’s heart like a vise. She whirled toward the source. Down the hill, across the field, at the edge of a copse of alders, two eyes reflected the pink rays of dawn. They were looking straight at her.
In the next heartbeat, the creature charged out of the trees. Though panther-shaped, it reminded her of the blocky vagueness of a clay statue sculpted by a child. But there was nothing childlike in the way it moved. Power surged beneath those muscles. It soared toward them, covering twenty yards with every bound.
“The shed.” She ran to the building. A lock hung from the door, barring entry. “Need the key. Search the bodies.”
“There’s no time,” Sicarius said. “Climb!”
He leapt onto the nearest column and scaled it like a squirrel running up an oak. Amaranthe searched for a ladder. There was not one.
She grabbed the icy steel with both hands. The edges cut into her hands, and her boots slipped off the smooth metal rivets. Her progress was slow. Too slow.
The unearthly shriek came again, much closer. The beast surged over the crown of the hill, snow churning beneath its paws.
Amaranthe was less than half way to the bottom of the tank. Surely the creature would leap and tear her from her perch. She would probably be dead before she landed.
Stop thinking. Climb!
Fingers scrabbling for grips, she tried to pull herself up faster. The beast bunched its muscles to jump. Amaranthe braced herself.
A flash of silver spun down from above. The throwing knife struck the creature in one yellow eye.
The weapon bounced off as if it had hit steel. It landed in the snow, blade glittering uselessly.
Fortunately, the attack distracted the beast. Instead of leaping, it bounded past Amaranthe’s pole.
She renewed her climb. Ten feet to go. A growl from below drew her gaze.
The creature jumped straight up. A claw slashed at Amaranthe. She jerked her leg up. The wind of the miss rustled her pants.
The beast backed up to get a running start. Without stopping, Amaranthe looked up. Five feet. Almost there. Sicarius had long since made the narrow access ledge surrounding the base of the tank. Doggedly, she kept going.
The creature leapt.
Time slowed. The beast arced toward Amaranthe. Its open maw grew level with her knees. The misshapen head was bigger than her torso. She lifted a foot, ready to kick at it, knowing it would prove futile.
Sicarius’s hand wrapped around her wrist. He yanked her up. The creature soared past the spot she had occupied. A frustrated howl tore from its throat as it descended.
On the ledge, Amaranthe collapsed next to Sicarius. She tucked her legs into a ball, ensuring no limbs hung over the edge.
“Was that a close enough look for you?” Sicarius asked dryly.
He was not even sweating. Bastard.
Amaranthe pushed hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand. It was a moment before she caught her breath and could answer. “I can describe it well for Akstyr now, so, yes. Do you know any more now that you’ve seen it?”
Sicarius watched the beast pacing below. Yellow eyes glared up at them from above a thick snout fenced with four-inch fangs.
“It’s Nurian.”
“Careful,” Amaranthe said, “you’ll overwhelm me with the details.”
The creature rammed into one of the support columns. A tremor pulsed through the structure. The columns were set in concrete. The beast could not possibly have the mass needed to knock the tower over. She hoped.
“It looks like it’s made out of clay, though obviously it’s stronger than your average ceramic...” She trailed off, remembering.
“What?” Sicarius asked.
For the first time, Amaranthe described to him the fire, the murders, and the shards scattered about the giant kiln she had been investigating the day she first came to Hollowcrest’s attention. “Would a magic creature like this be crafted from mundane materials? And would people need to die for the spell, ritual, or whatever to be completed?”
Sicarius looked at her sharply. “If it’s a soul construct, yes.”
“What’s the purpose of a soul construct, besides—”
The creature rammed the column again before turning its head and gnawing at the steel.
“—killing people and chasing us up water towers?” Amaranthe finished.
“Guarding its maker,” Sicarius said.
“And would that maker be nearby?”
“Perhaps not near the creature’s kills. These appear random, as if it’s simply replenishing itself with people’s souls, choosing victims unlikely to be missed—though the soldiers could have been a mistake. It is likely the maker is in the city.”
Amaranthe remembered Avery’s gossip about a creature seen leaping fences in the Ridge neighborhoods. “I have a hunch it’s Arbitan Losk.”
“Based on newspaper clippings in his desk?”
Before she could defend her hunch further, Sicarius pointed. A line of twenty armed soldiers marched toward the tower.
“At least they’ll see what they’re up against,” Amaranthe said, struggling for a positive tone. She wanted the soldiers to see the creature but feared it would attack them, leaving more dead scattered on the cold snow.
Sicarius rose to a crouch. “We can’t be captured.”
Amaranthe grimaced. If they were, it would be her fault, just as their current situation was.
The soldiers reached the base of the hill. Several bore repeating crossbows or muskets. They all wore swords. One man pointed at Sicarius and Amaranthe. From the bottom of the hill, they could see the top of the water tower, though not its base yet. They didn’t know about the creature.
The soldiers began climbing. Their voices ascended ahead of them.
The creature cocked its head. After a frozen moment, it ran. It veered not toward the soldiers but away, down the back side of the hill. Amaranthe’s shoulders sagged. The soldiers would never see it.
“Now,” Sicarius urged.
He swung over the lip of the ledge and grabbed the column. He half-slid, half-dropped to the ground. As the lead soldier crested the hill, Sicarius landed with a roll and came up running. He dodged through the columns and took off in the same direction as the beast.
“Murderer!” the lead soldier shouted. “Alpha Squad, get him.”
Eleven men chased after Sicarius. That left a mere nine staring up at Amaranthe. Knowing she could not duplicate Sicarius’s descent without breaking bones, she did not try.
“Hello,” she called down to the soldiers.
“Come down,” the leader said, “or we’ll shoot.”
“I’ve done nothing,” Amaranthe said. “I was only trying to escape from the monster that killed your men.”
A couple soldiers shifted uneasily at the word “monster.”
“Save it for my C.O.,” the leader said.
Amaranthe slid over the ledge and navigated a cautious descent. At the bottom, soldiers surrounded her. One man searched her and took her knife.
“Tomsol is dead too,” a soldier said from the ruins where Amaranthe had discovered the first corpse. “Body torn up, limbs missing.”
The corporal in charge—she could see his rank now—glared at her as if she was responsible.
She spread her arms, palms up. “I’ve done nothing. I was just out for a run and followed the tracks up from the lake.”
A soldier plucked Sicarius’s throwing knife from the snow. “Just out for a run, huh?”
“The lake’s not as safe as it used to be.”
“Take her back to the fort,” the corporal said. “The C.O. will want to question her.”
Four men detached from the squad. Two clamped their hands around Amaranthe’s biceps, grips strong. The other two followed them, muskets aimed at her back. They left the corporal kneeling over one of the bodies, fist pressed to his lips.
On the way to the garrison, the efficient soldiers gave Amaranthe no opportunity to escape. The sun peeked over the city. Its rays landed on her back but warmed her little. With dawn’s arrival, people moved about outside the fort, heading toward a fenced compound where steam vehicles were being fired up. A gate stood open, and an armored artillery truck trundled out for practice maneuvers, its steel frame bristling with cannons.
Everyone they passed wore army uniforms with the exception of a couple dozen civilians, mostly women. They were opening a variety of kiosks outside the front gate. Signs advertised boot polishing, fresh-baked pastries, and other goods and services. The scent of warm flatbread wafted through the crisp air, and Amaranthe’s stomach rumbled.
Though the front gate was open, two soldiers guarded it. When Amaranthe passed through, she might as well have entered a steel cage. With so many soldiers crossing the brick square inside, she did not see how she could escape.
She should have taken the route Sicarius had and risked the broken bones. Now it was too late.
* * * * *
Sespian strode down a windowless passage in the back of the Imperial Barracks. His six guards clanked and clattered behind him. Long periods of shadow lay between the unadorned gas jets; their pipes ran along the outside of the old stone walls. No one else walked the hallway. Few knew of its existence.
He clutched birthday invitations for diplomats of eight nations. Should Hollowcrest learn of this jaunt, Sespian hoped the invites would provide a plausible cover for his sudden interest in visiting the headquarters of the Imperial Intelligence Network.
At the end of the ha
ll, he opened a door and entered a windowless room ordered with numerous tidy desks and tables. Wooden file cabinets lined three of the four walls, while shelves full of books and maps rose along the last. A couple doors led to tiny interrogation cubicles.
Eight men worked in the office, though Sespian knew they represented only a portion of the intelligence network. Some wore army uniforms and others bland civilian attire, though all were soldiers.
“Room, attention!” someone barked upon spying Sespian.
Each man dropped his paperwork, stood, and thumped a palm to his chest in salute.
“At ease,” Sespian said, feeling silly as soon as the army lingo came out of his mouth. These men knew he had never commanded a squad at physical training much less led soldiers into battle. Given their intelligence-gathering manifesto, they probably also knew each and every excuse a younger Sespian had used to escape Weaponsmaster Orik’s lessons. Still, he figured they’d be more likely to listen to a confident, commanding emperor, not the inexperienced idealist Hollowcrest claimed Sespian was. “Colonel Backcrest, see me, please.”
The keen-eyed head of the intelligence office hustled forward, snapping his heels as he assumed a rigid attention stance. His black uniform included polished boots, gleaming brass buttons, and creases so perky one wondered if he ironed with a steam roller.
“Colonel, I’d like you to check up on these diplomats.” Sespian handed over the invitations. “Make sure they’re not a likely threat, and, if they pass muster, deliver these messages before my birthday celebration.”
“Of course, Sire. Can we be of any other assistance? Would you like to see our most recent reports?” Backcrest asked, eyebrows rising hopefully.
Sespian guessed officers cloistered back here rarely received the recognition of field soldiers, men constantly tried in battle and drills that let them shine in front of their comrades and commanders. These men were probably all hungering for praise. Maybe Sespian didn’t need to act like an experienced commander after all; maybe he just needed to give them attention.
“Not just now,” he said, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d start sending weekly updates to my office.”