At the end of a long corridor, two women turned around a corner and came into his sight. Sicarius kept running, though he recognized the significance of one’s buckskin dress and tattoos. He threw a knife, hoping to distract the shaman, but the long hallway gave her time to react. She raised a hand, and an invisible force deflected the blade into a wall before it reached her. Her hand remained up, and her eyes narrowed with focus. The other woman didn’t carry an obvious weapon, but she stopped behind the shaman, uttering a command.
A side corridor opened up halfway between him and them, and he sprinted for it even as he braced himself for an attack. If it was a mental assault, he might be able to block it.
As soon as the first flame sparked into existence, Sicarius knew he couldn’t fight it; he had no way to defend against physical Science, except by avoiding it. He sprinted and dove into a roll for the intersection. As he twisted to angle around the corner, he loosed a second throwing knife. The impudence cost him, and fire engulfed his arm. A split second later, he rounded the corner, the wall blocking him from further damage, and he raced off, batted out the flames on his sleeve. The scent of seared flesh rose from the burned fabric and blackened skin. Another wound to worry about later. He threw himself around the next nearest intersection, but stopped there, peering back the way he’d come to see if the women followed.
They charged past without more than a glance down his corridor. Abandon the mission, abandon this craft, their harried expressions said. Sicarius wondered, not for the first time since he’d run in, if the crew feared the Behemoth was going to explode, much like that lorry had earlier in the night.
Sicarius ran back toward the main corridor, intending to return to his earlier route—if those women were amongst those in charge, they might have come from dealing with Amaranthe. He gritted his teeth, hating the images that came to mind at the words “dealing with.”
Before he reached the main corridor again, a black cube floated into view. Between one step and the next, Sicarius halted, dropping into a crouch. No wonder the women had looked harried.
Poised on the balls of his feet, he waited, ready to flee again if needed. The cube continued on after its original prey. After a few seconds passed, Sicarius ventured back into the intersection. He was in time to see the cube disappear around the corner back the way he’d come. For a moment, he imagined a fleet of those things floating into the city, incinerating every man, woman, and child they came across, but his concern for Amaranthe leaped back to the forefront of his mind.
Still following the women’s route of origin, he turned into a dead-end corridor. He’d seen a few of those dead ends twenty years earlier, in those ancient tunnels, and he knew there could be doors even in spots where they weren’t apparent. He touched the wall when he reached it, and symbols flared to life. He’d seen them before, too—had watched Professor Komitopis open numerous doors. Though years had passed, many of those events from that strange mission were indelibly imprinted on his mind, and he found the right combination on the first try.
It wasn’t a door, but a lift, and the floor rose, carrying him to a new level. He waited in a ready stance, a dagger in each hand, but the room he entered was empty of the living. The air smelled of charred flesh and blood, though, and he stepped off the lift and around the bodies of guards. Another body lay facedown on the floor on the opposite side of a room, the skin and clothing burned off, features seared past the point of recognition, though it was a feminine form. Something under its torso glinted, and a sick sense of dread made Sicarius’s belly quiver as he glanced at his own raw arm, remembering the shaman’s power. What if Amaranthe had been trying to control the vessel and that woman with the shaman… had been determined that she not?
Sicarius sheathed his daggers, or maybe he dropped them—he was barely thinking—and walked forward. Slowly. If the craft was about to explode, he wasn’t sure he cared.
He tried to kneel by the form, but his legs gave out—whether from his injures or loss of blood or frostbite, he didn’t know—and he tumbled to the floor. From his knees, he rolled over the body. The flesh was still warm, blood and pus oozing from cracks, but the eyes and face had been burned away, and the chest no longer rose and fell. The garments, too, had fallen to ashes, and the only thing that remained was a silver chain and medallion, the slitted eyes of a Kendorian lizard staring up at him. The medallion Amaranthe had been wearing as part of her costume.
Sicarius didn’t know how long he sat there, but his blood was pooling on the floor, a lot of it. If he wanted to live, he ought to bandage his wounds. He rubbed his face with a shaking hand, not sure he cared any more. About living. For so long Sespian had given him purpose, something to work to protect, a reason to be in the world. And then Amaranthe, though he’d done so little to encourage her, had insinuated herself into his life, and he’d had another reason to be, another reason to think the world might grow more interesting later on. And now…?
He found himself lying on his back, moisture—blood—seeping through his shirt as he stared at the black ceiling high above. He’d long suspected the world would be a better place without him in it. Maybe this was some sort of cosmic fate, finally catching up with him for all he’d done.
A soft whisper of sound reached his ears. More out of reflex than because it mattered, Sicarius turned his head toward the lift. He was too numb to react with surprise or fear or pain when a solitary man walked onto the floor.
Hands clasped behind his back, the silver-haired Nurian practitioner strode across the room, his vibrant robes flowing about him, his weathered face grim. He stopped a few feet away and stared down at Sicarius.
A fitting end, Sicarius thought. His wounds might not have been enough to finish him, but the practitioner could ensure his death.
“You have been nettlesome,” the man said in his native tongue.
Yes, Sicarius thought, I have. “Then end it,” he whispered in Nurian.
A single silver eyebrow rose. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’ve robbed me of my bodyguard and my beast of burden when my mission here is far from complete. I will need another to fill those roles.”
The words percolated slowly through Sicarius’s battered mind, and it wasn’t until the wizard removed his hands from behind his back that their meaning sank in. He lifted an exotic opal between thumb and forefinger, its black, orange, and greens arresting even before he murmured something under his breath, and the stone began to glow. The practitioner lowered it to Sicarius’s temple, pressing it against the skin. It was warm. More, it caused a strange tingle to run straight into his brain.
Sicarius should have lifted his arm, should have knocked that stone away, but either the practitioner or the loss of blood kept his limbs from responding. Instead the tingle grew hotter and more intense, as if the opal were burning its way into the side of his head. Abruptly the fire went out, and a quenching relief flared from the stone.
“It is done.” The practitioner nodded. “You are mine now.”
Through no intent of his own, Sicarius felt his gaze being pulled to the side until he stared into the other man’s deep brown eyes, eyes as dark and inscrutable as his own.
“You will obey me,” the practitioner said. “Understood?”
Against his wishes, Sicarius whispered, “I will obey.”
THE END
Forged in Blood II Preview
Amaranthe wasn’t dead. At least, she didn’t think so. Dead people probably didn’t hurt all over. The flying lifeboat had insulated them from the crash somehow, though her head had connected with a couple more walls before the craft stopped bouncing.
“Books?” she asked into the darkness. “Akstyr? I hope one of you is alive, because I have no idea how to open that door and get out of this thing.”
A deep, pained sigh came from under her—she’d tumbled back on top of the men again during the landing. Amaranthe crawled to the side, though there wasn’t much open space in the cramped dark cabin.
“One of you?�
�� Books repeated. “You have no preference to whom your survivor is, nor a belief that one of us would be more equal to the task of opening a door secured by ancient unfathomable technology or of deciphering instructions written in an inscrutable alien tongue?”
He must not be wounded horribly if he could utter all that.
“You saw instructions?” Amaranthe asked.
“Well, no, but it was hard to get a good look in the dark. And while we were being shot at.”
“We still have the darkness problem,” Amaranthe pointed out. The viewport that had appeared while they were in flight had disappeared before the crash, leaving the inside of their flying lifeboat utterly black. “Akstyr?” Amaranthe patted around, seeking his neck so she could check his pulse. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d hurled himself into the craft, dodging the incendiary beams of those indestructible cubes.
Akstyr mumbled something.
“What?” Amaranthe breathed a sigh of relief. They might be a thousand miles from the capital, but at least they were all alive.
“Wanna rest,” he slurred. He was facedown, his mouth pressed into the floor. “But some muddy’s knee is up my buss.”
“I think he’s referring to you,” Amaranthe told Books mildly, fairly certain she wasn’t sitting on anyone anymore. Though she couldn’t be sure what a “buss” was.
“Ah.” Books shifted. “I’d wondered why that section of the floor was so bony.”
“Ma buss not bony,” Akstyr slurred.
Maybe it was more than his position accounting for the slur. Amaranthe prodded his scalp and found a lump. He must have hit his head, among other things. He’d also been wearier than a long distance runner after a race at the Games when he’d stumbled into the lifeboat. Out of curiosity, Amaranthe investigated her own scalp. She snorted when she found three lumps. Maybe her words were coming out slurred too.
Books groaned as he stood up. “I’ll see if I can find the—”
The door slid up, the material disappearing into the hull, and starlight, freezing air, and the scents of snow-covered pine trees entered.
“Good work.” Amaranthe patted around, finding two of their rifles. The cartridge ammunition littered the floor, and she scooped as much into her pockets as she could. Who knew what they’d face out there? The craft could have plopped them down into grimbal or makarovi territory.
“Uhm, yes. Except I didn’t do anything. Perhaps it sensed that we’d landed and it’s ready to spew us forth into the world.”
“That’s fine. I’m ready to be spewed.”
“Think I was already spewed,” Akstyr muttered and curled his legs up to his chest. “It’s cold. I wanna stay here and sleep. Be warm.”
“If the door closes again,” Books said, “you may be stuck inside forever, because I don’t know how to open it.”
Akstyr lurched to his feet and stumbled out into the snow. “Never mind. I’m ready.”
He barely made it through the threshold before slumping against the hull.
“Why don’t you stay here,” Amaranthe suggested, “and try to make a fire? Books and I will figure out where we are.” Or so she hoped.
When Amaranthe stepped outside, shivering at the wind scouring the mountainside, her optimism floundered. A few pines, the bases half buried by drifts, dotted the slope below them. They’d landed above the tree line and, she feared, far from any towns. She was not prepared for winter wilderness survival conditions.
Books stepped out beside her and surveyed the dark surroundings. “Hm.”
“Does that mean you don’t know where we are either?” Amaranthe wished they had an idea of how far they’d flown and in which direction. Were they fifty miles from the capital? Or five hundred? Though she’d been out of Stumps more times in the last year than in her life prior to that, she didn’t exactly qualify as a world explorer yet.
“That may be a pass up there,” Books mused. “And those four peaks in a row remind me of the Scarlet Sisters, though there are arrangements like that in other mountain ranges, too, I’m certain. We don’t seem to have left the climate zone, albeit we’re at a higher and, ah, chillier altitude. The stars are familiar.”
“That was a yes, right? You don’t know where we are?”
Books grumped something that might have been agreement.
“I hear a train,” Akstyr said from where he still leaned against the lifeboat hull, his eyes closed, his arms wrapped tightly about himself and his robe.
Amaranthe perked up. Akstyr was right. She caught the distant chuffing of an engine working hard to drive its load up an incline.
“Oh!” Books said. “Those are the Scarlet Sisters then. That’ll be the East-West Line, and that train is either traveling to or from Stumps.”
Given the chaos the Behemoth’s appearance must have caused—Amaranthe had no idea if it’d sunken back down into the lake or taken off for some distant destination, but people had doubtlessly witnessed it either way—she thought traveling from was the more likely scenario. Or fleeing from perhaps. Still… “Let’s see if we can get to the rails before it’s gone. If it’s going to the city—”
“It could be our ride home,” Books finished.
“Does this mean no fire?” Akstyr asked.
“Sorry.” Amaranthe grabbed his arm. They’d have to hurry if they had any chance of scrambling down the mountain in time.
“You can sleep on the way back to the city,” Books said. “We’re over one hundred and fifty miles from Stumps.”
Amaranthe’s mind boggled at the idea that they’d traveled that far in a couple of minutes, but she was more concerned about getting back at the moment. She handed Books the other rifle and led the way down the mountainside, plowing through snow that enveloped her legs up to her knees with every step. It didn’t take long for sweat to break out on her brow and weariness to slow her limbs. Her newly acquired bruises and lumps further protested this unasked for workout, and she wasn’t altogether upset when Akstyr was too tired to go on, and they had to stop to rest, huddling beneath the boughs of a tree for protection from the wind. The chugs of the train faded from hearing.
“I believe that one was heading away from the capital,” Books said.
Amaranthe doubted he could tell—with the way the mountain walls, canyons, and crevasses distorted sound, she couldn’t—but she could understand the desire for optimism. Especially when her toes were freezing in her boots. Once again, she was glad she’d ignored Maldynado’s suggestion to wear sandals to the Yacht Club.
“Anyone have any food?” Akstyr asked when they started out again.
“Not unless Amaranthe’s purse contains more than glue for her fake nose,” Books said.
“Actually, I have some of Sicarius’s dehydrated meat-and-fat bars in here,” Amaranthe said.
“I’d rather eat the nose glue,” Akstyr said.
“You may change your mind after another day out here.”
Akstyr’s grumbled response was too low to make out. They continued their trudge, cold and miserable and utterly unequipped for the terrain, though traveling downhill took some of the anguish out of the trek. As dawn broke over the mountains, the clear sky untouched by smog and impressive in its gradated pinks and oranges, they reached the base of the pass. The cleared tracks, snow piled high to either side, wound through the treacherous terrain, a black snake navigating boulders and slopes.
Amaranthe angled toward a bridge, the support structure towering well over the tracks. It’d be an opportune place—or rather the only place—to jump onto a moving train, and it was something they’d practiced as a team before.
That didn’t keep Books from groaning as they approached. “Why am I certain of what’s in your mind and certain it’ll be dangerous?”
“Really, Books, we’ve just been chased by man-incinerating machines, flung from an aircraft so alien our science can’t begin to fathom it, and been hurtled hundreds of miles to crash land on a mountainside. You’re going to complain about someth
ing as benign as hopping onto a train?”
“She’s got a point, you know,” Akstyr said. “It’s freezing out here. I’d do just about anything to get off this mountain.”
Books’s grumbled response wasn’t understandable.
Amaranthe nudged Akstyr. “He’s just complaining out of habit now. It’s what men do when they get old.”
“I am not old,” Books said. “I probably wouldn’t even have any gray hair yet if I weren’t traipsing around after you all the time. This last year has been enough to age a man ten.”
“That’s a lie. You had gray temples when I met you.”
“Fine, these last two years have been enough to age a man ten.”
They’d reached the base of the bridge, frothy white water frozen into ridges of ice far below, and Amaranthe stopped teasing Books. She didn’t wish to remind him of the death of his son and the difficult times he’d faced before joining her team. Granted, he was right that the last year hadn’t been without difficulties either. But it’d all end soon. One way or another.
This time, Amaranthe heard the train first, the distant chugs coming from the west. “It’s heading to the capital. This is our opportunity.” She waved for them to climb halfway up one of the towers rising from the suspension bridge. “It’s still dark enough that, if we’re lucky, the engineer won’t notice us crouching up there.”
“Good, we’re due some luck,” Books said.
“Let’s just be happy that there are trains coming through and that we didn’t have to wait for days out here.” The East West Line was a busy one, taking passengers and cargo from Stumps to the various ports on the west coast and back, but Amaranthe hadn’t known what to expect with the capital locked down. She did know the train would be stopped and searched before being allowed in. Best to worry about getting on first. “Akstyr, can you make the climb?” she asked.
Books was shimmying up the cold steel supports, but Akstyr stood at the base, staring upward, his eyes sunken and his body slumped.
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