Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  Sicarius didn’t see how his reputation mattered at the moment, but the thought that Sespian might want him on the staff pleased him. “Have I changed your mind?” If so, he wondered if it was a result of Sespian spending time with him or more a matter of Amaranthe speaking on his behalf. Or perhaps reading his files in Hollowcrest’s office had made a difference.

  “It’s… possible you’re not as utterly evil and loathsome as I thought.”

  “I see.” One probably shouldn’t find such a dubious accolade amusing, but Sicarius did so anyway. “My employability can be discussed further once the succession is solidified. For now, there’s little I can do inside, whereas I can be hunting the soul construct—and its creator—on the outside. Ridgecrest doesn’t seem to be a threat to you at this time. Nor has the soul construct shown an inclination toward entering the fort. You should be relatively safe in there.”

  “Until Heroncrest decides to launch an attack,” Sespian said grimly.

  Was he truly worried about surviving such an event? Or was it possible he didn’t wish Sicarius to leave his side? Or, if not that, maybe he worried that Sicarius would die if he went hunting for wizard’s beasts. No, he was reading too much into a simple statement.

  “It’s unlikely they’ll breech the walls quickly,” Sicarius said. “If they start shooting, duck. Faster than you did with the cannonball.”

  Sespian propped a fist on his hip. “I knew that cannonball wasn’t aimed at me.”

  “You may find it easier to go in through the front gate. I’ll disappear before light comes.” Sicarius took a few steps along the beam, intending to check on the soldiers—he didn’t think they’d blow up their own water tower in an attempt to kill him, but he wouldn’t be dumbfounded if they were discussing the repercussions now.

  But they weren’t discussing anything. Most of the men who’d been lined up along the parapet, pointing rifles or manning artillery, had disappeared. Only the soldiers in the watchtower remained, and one of them was facing the door.

  “What happened?” Sespian peered around the opposite side of the tank. “Something more interesting going on inside?”

  Sicarius couldn’t imagine what, though he did detect a number of distant shouts coming from the fort. Was it possible the tunnel borer had already plowed through the earth and come up inside? He had little experience with such machines, but it seemed too soon.

  “Is that smoke?” Sespian asked.

  There were furnaces and stoves burning inside numerous houses and buildings within the fort walls, so smoke was natural, but there did seem to be a thicker plume rising from one side. It was difficult to tell against the cloudy night sky, but Sicarius caught the scent of burning wood. The furnaces and stoves would be burning coal.

  Two more figures strode into view on the parapet, both wearing military fatigues. They had familiar forms and gaits.

  “Uhm, that soldier’s hair is too long,” Sespian said. “And that one’s awfully short for a Turgonian. Those wouldn’t be your friends, by chance, would they?”

  Maldynado and Basilard strolled up to the corner guard tower and knocked on the door. It opened. Maldynado pointed at the water tower and said something. When the soldier stuck his head out to look, Basilard grabbed his wrist and pulled him off balance at the same time as Maldynado kicked the back of his knees. While Basilard finished subduing him, Maldynado rushed inside. The second soldier’s head disappeared from the window.

  “Yes, those must be friends of yours,” Sespian said dryly.

  Basilard faced the water tower and waved. It was too far to read hand signs, but Sicarius understood. They’d cleared the way. They’d probably lit one of the officer’s houses on fire. Not Ridgecrest’s, one hoped.

  Sespian was already climbing to the top of the tank. He had the harpoon launcher in hand by the time Sicarius joined him. Sespian tied off the end of the cable, then, with surprising accuracy, shot the weapon, sending the harpoon sailing around a lightning rod on the top of the guard tower.

  “Funambulating time,” he said with a wink.

  “You go.” Again, Sicarius eyed the trail in the snow. “Stay with Maldynado and Basilard. They’ll protect you.”

  The harpoon launcher drooped in Sespian’s hands. He looked like he might argue, make another objection, but Sicarius lifted his hand to forestall it. They’d discussed this enough. He gripped Sespian’s arm briefly, then slid down the ladder to the beam, and finally down a post to the ground. He headed into the night to track the soul construct.

  Chapter 15

  As Amaranthe headed for the submarine hatch and the voluminous black chamber beyond Retta, she second-guessed herself. Maybe she shouldn’t have let Books and Akstyr change into the guard uniforms. Not only did they fit poorly—Akstyr and Books were both tall and lanky, rather than thick and burly—but surely any guards they encountered down here would be familiar with all of their colleagues working this gig. On the other hand, they wouldn’t have known that the woman above had vetoed Amaranthe/Suan’s attempt to bring her comrades along. Amaranthe might have walked in with them in their original costumes. Of course, disallowing visitors might be a Forge-wide policy. Maybe she would get lucky, and there wouldn’t be any guards on duty. It was getting late after all, wasn’t it?

  The submarine hadn’t docked so much as been sucked all the way into a cargo bay, the “wall” closing behind it, and now it dripped water from its hull, forming puddles. When Amaranthe ducked through the hatchway and stepped into the chamber, she had to squint and blink at the day-bright light emanating from the walls and from a ceiling thirty feet above her head. More than the light disconcerted her. Those featureless inky walls and the disproportionate architecture—they brought back memories. Walking through corridors, being smashed into a wall by Pike, being picked up by a mechanical claw and locked onto that table, spending hours under the man’s knife, being helpless to escape any of it…

  A hand gripped her shoulder. Books.

  Amaranthe licked her lips and tried to draw strength from his presence. She wasn’t alone this time, and Pike was dead.

  The rest of the men on the Behemoth hadn’t shared his fate, however, and a number of guards were waiting. So much for her hope that there wouldn’t be any. Not only were they there, but there were more than Retta had led her to expect. Ten men, lined up in two squads, stood a couple of meters away from the submarine hatch, their hands clasped behind their backs, crossbows slung over their shoulders and swords at their belts.

  Amaranthe’s fingers itched. Books and Akstyr carried the subdued guards’ rifles, but she still had nothing more than a knife.

  “Uh, hello?” Retta lifted a hand toward the waiting squads. No, she hadn’t lied; she truly hadn’t expected this many men.

  Amaranthe stood in front of the hatchway, trying to block the men’s views of Books and Akstyr’s faces. Difficult given that they were almost a foot taller than she. Wisely, they hung back in the shadows of the hatchway, keeping their heads ducked.

  “We’ve two days off,” the highest-ranking guard said. “Captain Wricket said you might be able to take us back up, ma’am.”

  Amaranthe barely heard him. She was staring at a pair of men in black fatigues standing by a wide cargo door on the far side of the chamber. They clasped repeating rifles in their arms, making the guards with crossbows seem lackluster in comparison. Stolid, humorless expressions stamped their faces, faces that she recognized. They were two of Pike’s people. She feared they’d see through her flimsy costume and recognize her straight away.

  “I certainly can,” Retta said, “but I was going to show my sister around first. We’ve been waiting a long time for her to join us.”

  Every set of eyes in the chamber swiveled toward Amaranthe. It was all she could do not to bare her teeth at Retta for drawing their attention. Were those two guards by the door squinting at her with suspicion? Or did they naturally look that constipated? She didn’t know if she should say something—would Suan deign to sp
eak to the hired help?

  “Where’s Neeth?” someone asked from the side.

  The submarine body had blocked the view of a control station set into the wall and the person who sat at it. The woman stood and joined them, peering at Reeta, then studying Amaranthe. Tight gray curls cupped her head, and spectacles thicker than bottle bottoms framed inquiring brown eyes. She must have been in her seventies, but her step was springy, her curiosity almost palpable.

  “We waited for her, but she hadn’t arrived yet, so I decided to make two trips,” Retta said. “Ah, Suan? This is Mia, my assistant.”

  “Your assistant?”

  Mia’s lips quirked with wry amusement. “You retire from your old career and begin a new one, and they make you start all over at the bottom. I do not, however, fetch her tea or flatcakes.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Amaranthe said, instantly liking the woman and hoping she wouldn’t be forced to do anything untoward to her.

  “She’s a fast learner and is almost as adept as deciphering the runes as I am.” Retta sighed, and Amaranthe sensed more bitterness than fondness in the exhalation.

  Mia didn’t seem to notice. She grasped Amaranthe’s forearm. “Suan, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve heard much about you.”

  Uh oh. Amaranthe hoped there wouldn’t be further tests. At least this wasn’t an old colleague.

  One of the men at the door murmured something to the other.

  “Perhaps we can share a meal later?” Amaranthe asked. “I’m weary from my weeks of travel. Retta, can you show me to a room before leaving to take these fellows back up?” More precisely, Amaranthe wanted a tour of the Behemoth, a better one than she’d had last time, including the navigation room or engine room or whatever the equivalent was.

  “Who are you two?” one of the guards in the first squad asked.

  Amaranthe stifled a wince, knowing before she turned that someone was addressing Books and Akstyr.

  “Cafron and Vinks,” Books said. “We’re new.”

  “New? And you got this assignment? Nobody but Lettodjot’s most trusted men have gotten to come down here. There’s no chance you’d—”

  Amaranthe was trying to decide if she should attempt to talk her way out of the situation or simply accept that they’d have to fight when the speaker’s belt unclasped and his trousers descended. In fact, that happened to every man standing in the squads. Still lurking in the shadows, Akstyr had his eyes shut, grinning like a boy pawing open Winterfest gifts.

  His distraction wouldn’t startle the guards for long. Amaranthe had to act. She rejected the idea of using Mia for a shield and lunged for the closest of the startled guards instead.

  “What happened?” one was blurting, bent over and yanking up his trousers.

  “It’s magic, you idiots,” came a yell from the door. “Get them!”

  A rifle fired. If Amaranthe hadn’t already been moving, the bullet might have slammed into her chest. As it was, it ricocheted off the hull. Retta and Mia lunged between the control station and the submarine, hiding behind its bulk.

  Amaranthe snatched the crossbow off the back of the closest man who was struggling with his trousers, elbowing him in the gut to buy a second to pluck out bolts as well, then jumped behind the nose of the submarine with the other two women. More shots fired from the soldiers, all aimed in her direction. She didn’t know whether to take it personally or assume they weren’t shooting at Books and Akstyr because their own men were in the way. Either way, the submarine and the wall behind her took the brutality for her, though one bullet did ricochet off the control station and bounce into their cove. Retta screamed. She’d been hit. Cursed ancestors, this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

  Amaranthe leaned out and loosed a quarrel toward the doorway. It skipped harmlessly off the wall. The two soldiers had moved. They’d run into the room, each dropping to one knee, rifles pressed into their shoulders. They fired as soon as they saw her.

  She ducked behind the submarine again. Metal clashed to her right, near the open hatch. In her peripheral vision, she’d glimpsed the mass of green security uniforms descending on the submarine. Books and Akstyr had retreated inside. Given that only one person could attack at a time through the narrow entryway, they ought to be able to hold their own. Amaranthe on the other hand… Those soldiers were definitely after her.

  “Stop drawing their fire,” Retta snarled, her voice thick with pain. She was clenching her shoulder. Blood soaked her blouse and seeped between her fingers.

  “Emperor’s warts, I’m sorry,” Amaranthe said, reloading her crossbow. It could hold two quarrels at a time. She’d pay all the money in Sespian’s secret stash for one of those repeating rifles just then. “Where’d your assistant go?”

  Retta jerked her head to the left, then winced, doubtlessly wishing she hadn’t. If one followed the control wall to the end, there was a tall narrow door there. It was a good fifty feet away. Mia must have trusted that the soldiers wouldn’t shoot her. Amaranthe didn’t have that luxury. She checked to the right, thinking she might run around the submarine and surprise her attackers by appearing on the other side, but it had been parked too close to the hull. That barrier must have become permeable to allow their entry, but it appeared solid now.

  “They’re coming,” Books yelled over the twang of crossbows and the screeches of swords.

  Amaranthe dropped to her belly, hoping the soldiers would expect her to pop out at her regular height. Crossbow leading, she stuck her head around the corner.

  The soldiers must have been racing toward her and stopped at Books’s shout, for they were closer but on one knee again, prepared to shoot. When they saw her, they had to drop their rifles to adjust for her new position. She fired a bolt and ducked back.

  A rifle boomed, the bullet clanging off the hull a hair from where Amaranthe’s eyes had been. The noise rang in her ears like a bell. She didn’t know if she’d struck her target or not. A new round of growling and cursing came from behind her. She was glad Retta didn’t have a weapon; at this point, she must be ready to stick a dagger between Amaranthe’s shoulder blades.

  Retta could always shove you out into the soldier’s line of sight, Amaranthe thought.

  Another shot fired, the bullet caroming off the wall behind them. Neither Retta nor Amaranthe had been exposing any body parts at which to aim, so Amaranthe guessed it was meant as a distraction. She leaped to her feet, the butt of the crossbow jammed into the pit of her shoulder and stepped back.

  As another shot fired, causing Retta to bury her head under her arms, a black form somersaulted around the nose of the submarine. She’d expected someone on his feet to charge their hiding spot, but reacted immediately, lowering her aim.

  The soldier unfurled, a throwing knife in his hand. Amaranthe pulled the trigger, then dropped to the floor, hoping to evade the blade. It clattered off the hull above her. She grabbed the knife and scrambled to her feet, ready for a close quarters fight if that was what the soldier wanted. But he’d never risen from the floor. Her quarrel protruded from his neck and he only had time to utter one gurgled word.

  “What’d you say?” Amaranthe asked.

  He pitched sideways and didn’t move again.

  “Bitch,” Retta snarled, one hand clamped to her shoulder again.

  “Was that his word or are you cursing me?” Amaranthe didn’t have any more quarrels for the crossbow so she eased back to the nose of the submarine with the throwing knife in one hand and her own dagger in the other.

  Retta panted, trying to control the pain. “Both.”

  “Let me finish dealing with these men, and we’ll take care of your shoulder.”

  Amaranthe peeked around the corner, ready to jerk her head back if she caught sight of anyone aiming at her. There was at least one more soldier and all those green-uniformed guards as well. “Or perhaps not,” she murmured, taking in the carnage littering the floor around the submarine hatch. The black-clad man was dead, a crossbow bolt pr
otruding from one eye. She gulped. Her first wild shot from her belly had done that?

  Most of the guards were down as well. That hadn’t been her doing. Two of the men had either fled or made it into the submarine, but the clangs and grunts of battle had faded.

  Not lowering her weapons, she eased around the nose of the submarine and headed for the hatch. Half of the guards’ trousers were about their ankles. What had been amusing with the gang thugs on the docks failed to stir her humor now, not when the recipients of the pranks were dead with cut throats or bullets in their backs. Somehow Amaranthe doubted the soldiers had intentionally shot their own allies and suspected Akstyr’s hand had been in that as well.

  She couldn’t chastise him though; his tactics had saved them all from being captured. Or worse.

  Knowing they might not have much time before reinforcements came, she picked her way to the hatch. Books stood inside, cast-aside rifles on the deck, daggers in his hands, the blades dripping blood onto the threshold. A dead guard lay at his feet, and he was staring at the other bodies, his expression somewhere between shock and horror.

  Amaranthe gripped his arm. “We have to go.”

  Akstyr slipped past Books, bumping his elbow. Books didn’t seem to notice.

  “All dead?” Akstyr asked.

  “Yes, but I think some got away.” Amaranthe pointed at the doorway. “Can you help Retta, please? We need her to help us figure out… everything, and she’s injured.”

  Akstyr shrugged. “Sure.”

  Amaranthe rooted about for weapons. There were crossbows and rifles aplenty; ammunition was another matter. The guards must not have anticipated a big battle on their way to shore leave, for nobody was carrying extra, at least in the first few belt pouches she checked.

  Books dropped the daggers and wiped his hands on his trousers more times than was necessary. “You should bring Sicarius along when you need people…” He swallowed. “Dispatched. This isn’t… I don’t…”