Forged in Blood II

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Wait, that’s a woman!” Someone pointed at her. “Girl, you need to get out of there. As soon as those ugly bears catch a sniff of you—”

  Amaranthe ducked around the corner. The canister gripped between them, Sicarius and Sespian were already jogging down the icy steps leading to the basement, as if they’d been carrying heavy loads together all of their lives. The metal barrel, almost too large for the walled in stairwell, scraped and clunked against the cement foundation. Fortunately the rest of the team held the door open at the bottom. It’d either been unlocked, or they’d found a way through that lock.

  “You next,” Books said, a hand on Amaranthe’s back, guiding her toward the stairs.

  Behind them, footfalls approached, crunching on the snow. Amaranthe hurried, expecting troops with guns.

  But one of the makarovi leaped around the corner behind them. It roared, the bellow powerful enough to send the stench of its breath rolling over them. Books’s heel slipped off the top step. He would have gone down, but Amaranthe caught his arm.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he yelled. “Go, go!”

  The makarovi bounded toward them. Amaranthe pulled Books down the stairs. Halfway down, they both slipped on ice. Gravity threw them together, and they thumped and rolled to the bottom.

  At the top of the stairwell, the makarovi reared onto its hind legs, its forelegs rising into the air, dark claws promising death.

  A thunderous boom split the air in the same moment that someone grabbed Amaranthe’s shirt and yanked her through the basement doorway. Before she lost sight of the stairs, she saw the makarovi get clipped in the shoulder by a cannon ball. The creature spun into the air above the stairwell, a mass of black fur and legs flailing. Then Amaranthe was inside, the door slammed shut, and she didn’t see the rest. Though she did hear thumps on the stairs.

  She tried to sit up, but she and Books were entangled, with someone standing over them.

  A heavy bar thudded into place to secure the door. Sicarius, legs spread, was the one standing above them, and he gazed down, one eyebrow twitching ever so slightly.

  “So,” Amaranthe said, “they’re not all gone from the courtyard.”

  “I may have been mistaken,” Sicarius said, stepping aside.

  “I’ve longed to hear those words for months.” Books groaned and rolled to a sitting position. “Though it was always in response to my claims that you chose obstacle courses entirely too long and difficult for our team’s collective abilities. Especially mine.”

  Sicarius did not answer, though he bent to offer Amaranthe a hand up.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No, I’m fine.” Books lifted his own hand. “I can get up on my own.”

  Several feet farther inside, Maldynado nudged Yara. “I’m not the only one who whines.”

  “No, it’s a common trait amongst—”

  Something slammed into the door, and Amaranthe didn’t hear the rest. She considered the thick metal hinges and the solid oak boards. “Makarovi aren’t as strong as soul constructs, right? It shouldn’t be able to break in here, should it?”

  “Unlikely,” Sicarius said, “but we should act swiftly regardless.”

  Another thump rattled the door.

  “Oh, I agree, in every possible way.”

  Akstyr and Basilard were in the lead, and Amaranthe and the others followed them through a short hall and down more steps. Before they reached the whitewashed walls of the dungeon, they stopped on a small landing and turned into a less inimical space: the basement. It smelled of wood and coal, scents she decided were pleasant when compared to the musk of the makarovi.

  They found the furnace room—not much of a challenge since Sicarius, Akstyr, Books, and Sespian had been there before, albeit entering via a different route—and set the canister on the ground.

  Maldynado, who’d been among the last to carry it, rubbed his back. “Let’s tell Admiral Starcrest that his next poison delivery mechanism should be lighter weight. Pocket-sized would be ideal.”

  “I’ll let you be the one to tell him that.” Amaranthe fished in her pockets for the instructions the admiral had given her on setting up the barrel. There were hasty notes about temperature requirements and dispersion rates, too, the latter penned by his daughter. “I’m sure he’s even more impressed with complaining than Yara is.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not trying to ensure his good opinion so that he’ll keep sleeping with me.”

  “Sicarius…” Amaranthe drew him aside as Yara made some retort about her good opinion having yet to be earned. “We need someone to make sure the vents and flues are adjusted so that our special smoke doesn’t flow out into the night.” She glanced at Books, and he nodded. “Also, we absolutely cannot put people to sleep up there if there’s a chance there’s a makarovi inside the building. If there’s a duct you can squirm through, would you mind taking care of this business?”

  “Squirm,” he said in one of his flat tones.

  “You’d prefer a different word?”

  “I do not squirm.”

  “Even in bed?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, is there a duct you can thrust yourself through in a manly manner? Thrust is an acceptable word, I hope.” She bit off an inquiry about whether he performed that verb in bed, deciding it was a tad crass.

  That eyebrow was in danger of twitching again, but another bang sounded back at the exit door, and he must have decided the time for play was over. Sicarius jogged beneath a massive duct leading from the furnace and into the wall and unscrewed what she guessed was the vent to a maintenance shaft. He glanced at her before, yes, thrusting himself through the opening. If any squirming went on, he waited until he was out of sight to do it.

  “Let’s see that paper, Amaranthe.” Books had tipped the canister upright beside the furnace and unfolded something similar to, but more complicated than, a hose and spigot. “We should have this ready as soon as he returns.”

  Basilard was standing watch next to the exit leading to the stairs, and he closed the door firmly. I don’t believe that basement door will hold.

  “What happened to our allies with the cannon?” Maldynado asked.

  “It’s hard to shoot a cannon around a corner and down a stairwell,” Sespian said.

  “Just when you think technology is helping civilization progress in a useful way.”

  Amaranthe handed the sheet of paper to Books, happy to let him puzzle over the details, and joined Basilard at the door. She touched the wood. Though these boards were oak, too, they weren’t so stout as the ones upstairs.

  It won’t have much trouble breaching this door, Basilard signed, echoing her thoughts, if it makes it through the one above.

  One that wasn’t as substantial as the thick gold-gilded entrance doors to the main floor—Amaranthe remembered their stoutness from her first trip. They’d been opened by steam technology rather than by a butler with a burly arm. Though there’d be women inside the Barracks, the makarovi might find those in the basement a more attainable prize.

  “Let me know if anything changes,” Amaranthe said.

  Basilard, his ear already pressed to the door, nodded once. If nothing else, they could escape into the ducts the way Sicarius had gone. The makarovi would be too big to follow them. They’d have to leave their canister behind though.

  “Ah, there’s a foldout handle too,” Books said. “What a clever little contraption. I’d love to take it apart and see how the inside works.”

  “Perhaps after we’ve dispensed the anesthesia,” Amaranthe murmured.

  “When did he have time to build this?” Sespian asked. “Has anybody seen Admiral Starcrest sleep since he got here?”

  “Aw, he’s been retired for twenty years,” Maldynado said. “I’m sure he had plenty of time to rest then.”

  Amaranthe thought of the submarine she’d seen and the hints Tikaya and their daughter had offered as to some of their adventures. “I’m not sure retired is quite wha
t he’s been.”

  A crack and a crash came from outside. Basilard met Amaranthe’s eyes.

  “Akstyr, I don’t suppose you have any Science tricks for distracting makarovi?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess I can’t pull down its underwear.”

  Books frowned at him. “Surely, your creativity can fathom other applications of similar skills.”

  “You want me to pull its fur down?” Akstyr asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Is that contraption working yet?” Amaranthe pointed at the canister, now with tubing in a coil at its base.

  “Yes, but you want to wait for Sicarius’s return, right?”

  “I want to—”

  Loud snuffles crept through the door. A few meters away, claws clacked on a cement floor.

  Amaranthe clamped her mouth shut, and everyone else stopped talking, as if sound were what had led the creature to the basement.

  She grabbed the end of the hose, unraveling it as she returned to the door. She slipped the tip into the crack beneath the boards. The clacking claws halted, and the loud, moist sniffs filled the hallway outside the door.

  The door is not much of a barrier for the passage of air, Books signed. The gas may affect us too.

  We can escape into the ducts if we start to feel groggy. Amaranthe pointed at the handle on the canister.

  I hope it’s that simple. With obvious reluctance, Books turned the handle.

  With the hose placed, Amaranthe backed away from the door.

  She caught Maldynado signing, What if the gas seeps through and knocks us out without hurting that beast at all?

  Books shrugged bleakly.

  A smash rattled the door. It might have been a paw or a shoulder. It hardly mattered. Under that first exploratory blow, the hinges groaned.

  Sespian, Books, Yara, and Maldynado drew their weapons, but they also eased closer to the maintenance shaft into which Sicarius had disappeared. Basilard waited beside Amaranthe, a pistol in one hand, a dagger in the other.

  When another blow battered the door, she took Books’s place at the canister and turned the handle up farther. A soft gurgle came from the hose. Right, she reminded herself, it was a liquid, not a gas. Not yet. It needed to be heated first.

  “Akstyr,” she whispered.

  He had moved close to the shaft, too, though he had his eyes closed, his forehead furrowed in concentration. She started to wave for someone to bump him, but he opened his eyes of his own volition. He shook his head at her.

  “That collar isn’t just controlling it; it’s protecting it.”

  Uh oh. Would it protect the creature from their concoction too? Or only Science-based attacks? There was no time to ask and debate about it.

  “There should be a bunch of liquid on the floor out there,” Amaranthe said, her words punctuated by another blow. One of the old boards cracked under the force. “I need you to heat it up. I know you can do heat.”

  “Oh, yes.” Akstyr brightened. “Even if I can’t attack the makarovi directly, I can make that hallway hotter than the sun’s armpit.” He rubbed his hands.

  “Just make sure the liquid is heated,” Amaranthe said.

  He waved and closed his eyes again.

  Another blow hammered the door. This time a hinge popped, and the top half tilted inward a couple of inches.

  “Now would be a good time,” Maldynado said. “Yara, get in the duct.”

  “I’m not turning coward and fleeing,” Yara growled, though her tone lost some of its fierceness when long claws slipped over the top of the door.

  The beast was probing, but in a second, it’d attack in full force.

  “Akstyr,” Amaranthe urged. At the same time, she waved the others toward the vent. “Yara, go. We can come back later, when it wanders off.” If it wandered off. The beasts had cursed singular minds where female prey was concerned. She turned off the handle on the canister. If the liquid hadn’t worked by now, it probably wouldn’t.

  Yara hesitated, but Maldynado hoisted her from her feet and shoved her into the shaft. Grim-faced, he stalked toward Amaranthe.

  “You’re next.”

  “Wait,” Akstyr blurted. “It’s burning. That gunk is all over its feet. I think—”

  The deafening roar of startled distress almost had the power to blow the door down on its own. The claws flexed on the boards. A snap sounded, the final hinge breaking free.

  Amaranthe ran to join the others at the vent, though she knew there’d be no time for everyone to climb in, not before the creature rushed inside.

  Flames danced in the hallway, surrounding the makarovi. It reared and roared, smashing its head and shoulders against the ceiling, but didn’t come in. The heat poured through the doorway, competing with the furnace. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if the creature was being burned, but it was surely alarmed.

  “Inside you go.” Maldynado snatched her around the waist and thrust her through the vent opening with the same maneuver he’d used on Yara. “Books, you next.”

  Shots fired. Amaranthe didn’t want to hide—she wanted to see if the gas worked—but someone was pushing against her—or being jammed against her—and she had to crawl deeper into the shaft. She found the first bend—and Yara’s feet. Yara seemed as reluctant as she, and wasn’t moving quickly.

  “More coming,” Amaranthe said.

  On her knees and elbows, her head brushing the low ceiling, she sped along as quickly as she could. Behind them, more shots fired, and she tried not to feel like a coward for fleeing while her men were fighting.

  “Books?” she asked over her shoulder. “Who’s still out there? With the door down, there won’t be any barrier. If they fall unconscious and the makarovi doesn’t…”

  “I’m aware of that problem,” he bit out from a ways back. He’d stopped before the bend.

  Amaranthe stopped too. She sniffed the air, trying to detect… whatever it was the gas would smell like. Mahliki hadn’t mentioned that.

  The gunshots had stopped. Nobody had cried out or screamed. She hoped that meant something. Something good. Because if the men were unconscious, they might not wake as the makarovi claws tore into their chests.

  Bile rose in her throat as the image of the mauled driver of the boring machine jumped into her mind.

  “Books…” She didn’t know what she wanted to ask. “We should go back and check.”

  “I don’t know how long it takes for the gas to dissipate. We might fall asleep in the ducts and drown in our own drool.”

  “We’re a grim lot tonight, aren’t we? Who’s behind you? Did anyone else make it in?”

  “I thought… I thought Sespian did, but… No, nobody’s behind me.”

  In the utter darkness ahead, Yara cursed. Amaranthe wiped sweat from her brow. There might be snow on the ground outside, but it was hot and stuffy in the vent.

  “Let’s go back,” Amaranthe said. “We have to know what’s happening. What happened.”

  “I don’t hear a thing,” Yara said.

  “Neither do I.” Amaranthe backed up. Without any room to turn around, she had to squirm—yes, there was no way anyone could navigate this tight shaft without squirming—her way around the bend again, feet first this time.

  She caught up with Books before he escaped the shaft. “Sorry,” she said after sticking her boot in his hair for the third time.

  “Never thought you were the type to kick a man when he was in a horizontal…” Books sniffed a few times. “Do you smell… I’m trying to decide if I feel groggy.”

  “I see the light from the furnace, just past you. You’re almost there.”

  “I’m not sure if that should encourage me to continue on or not,” Books said.

  “It depends on whether you want my boots in your face again. I’m going through to check one way or another.”

  “Pushy woman.” Books sniffed again.

  Amaranthe could smell the odor, too, though the stink of the makarovi was stronger. The gas
reminded her, of all the unlikely things, of lilacs. Maybe Mahliki had given it a fake scent to override something less pleasant, something that might make people flee to escape it.

  “If you’re that worried about it, stop inhaling, she said. “Pull your shirt up and hold your breath.”

  Amaranthe couldn’t decipher the grumbles that followed, but she did hear the deep inhalation, then scuffles as he moved again. She continued scooting back. The light brightened. Books had crawled out.

  She hurried to join him, lest he was even now passing out and being eaten at the same time. She was in such a hurry that she fell out in an ungainly tumble. When she tried to roll to her feet and spin toward the door, she tripped over a body on the floor. Her heart jumped into her throat. Dear ancestors, if they were all dead…

  But the makarovi hadn’t moved past the threshold. Akstyr’s flames had burned out, and the furry mass lay across the threshold, its bulk taking up two-thirds of the doorway. Not two feet from it, Basilard was sprawled on his side, his dagger stretched out toward the creature. Akstyr, Sespian, and Maldynado all lay flat on the floor around the maintenance shaft, their weapons also in their hands.

  With relief, Amaranthe noted the rises and falls of their chests. Everyone was breathing. Unfortunately—she ventured closer to check—the makarovi was too.

  She hadn’t taken a breath since she entered the room. She had no idea whether it was safe or not. Either way, they had better kill the makarovi before it woke up. Since Basilard’s dagger had a long, sharp serrated blade, she chose it instead of her own. It took a few seconds to pry it out of his hand. She approached the beast grimly, not certain she’d be strong enough to kill it even in this state.

  Let me, Books signed and waved for the knife. He’d pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth. You hold the fur away, so I can… He shrugged.

  What a fun use for teamwork. Grimly, she obeyed, parting the thick fur and baring the black skin beneath it. Sawing a board wouldn’t have been any easier, but at least the anesthesia kept it asleep. Amaranthe watched tensely, expecting it to rise at any moment, to rise and leap at her, claws slashing.

  As the moments passed and the blade sawed deeper, blood started to flow, then spurt.