Forged in Blood I

  “True, I hope Amaranthe’s plan works.”

  “As do I,” Sicarius said, though he cared more about her surviving the scheme than taking down Forge. He should be with her, not skulking around here. What would Heroncrest or Ridgecrest matter if Amaranthe was right and Forge had brought the Behemoth here, intending to use its weapons?

  “If Forge says he’s dead, he’s dead,” Heroncrest said. “Or he will be soon. Even in my northern satrapy, my family has had interactions with the leader of that organization in the last couple of years. They have an inconceivable amount of money at their disposal, and they have… other inconceivable powers too.”

  “Magic?”

  “I’m not sure exactly what it is. But I’ve seen an impressive demonstration of power.”

  Sicarius wondered what else Forge might command aside from the flying vessel. He doubted they’d shown that to Ravido Marblecrest’s rivals. Maybe they’d sought to cow Heroncrest, though, to warn him away from making a bid for the throne. He thought of the incineration cubes, imagining some aide of Heroncrest’s burned alive before his eyes.

  “My intelligence team has been following the newspapers,” the captain said, “and there have been several horribly mutilated bodies found in the last few days. Similar to some slayings that occurred in the city last winter. Some have suggested the makarovi have been brought over from Mangdorian territory. Others say some magical beast.”

  “Forge’s power… what was demonstrated for me, isn’t anything like that. It’s very… tidy.”

  “The cubes?” Sespian whispered.

  “Possibly,” Sicarius replied.

  “Some people are suggesting the Nurians might be behind the slayings,” the captain said.

  “Of course they’d want to control the Turgonian throne too,” Heroncrest said. “This is a massive once-in-countless-generations prize that’s available. It’s hard to believe they could have gotten people over here so quickly though. Unless they had advance warning.”

  “Or were planning an attack anyway.”

  Heroncrest grunted.

  “Regardless,” the captain continued, “tensions are thick in the city, and my reports suggest we can expect an escalation. It could get very bloody very soon. Also, word is getting out that we’re camped out here too, though neither Flintcrest nor Marblecrest has started marshaling forces. It’s possible they plan to let Ridgecrest deal with us on his own. If he can.”

  The wind shifted, refreshing the scent of cigarette smoke in the air. Sicarius lifted his head. No, the wind hadn’t shifted. Someone who was smoking was coming closer. The guard in sight hadn’t lit anything—Sicarius had been keeping an eye on him as well as the rest of the area while the officers spoke. He turned an ear toward the core of the vehicle lot, suspecting the pair of soldiers they’d pass earlier. Yes, the crunch of boots on frozen leaf litter came from that direction.

  “…over here,” one of the soldiers said.

  A couple of young mechanics shouldn’t have business in the command tent, but they were heading down the aisle in that direction. They’d pass beneath Sicarius and Sespian’s tramper.

  Sicarius touched Sespian’s shoulder and wriggled back so his head wouldn’t be visible if someone walked below them. When Sespian pushed away from the side to follow, a few clumps of snow were brushed over the edge. Sicarius hoped nobody was close enough to see or pay attention to the fresh lumps on the ground.

  “…need it tonight?” one man asked.

  “Sarge’ll be mad if I don’t have it at morning formation.”

  “Who is that?” called the guard at the corner of the clearing.

  “Privates Tuller and Wardivk. Left my ammo belt in the tramper.”

  Sicarius pulled farther back from the edge and knelt. He probed the snow and found the hinges of the roof hatch. Careful to keep his head out of the guard’s line of sight, he maneuvered about so he’d be behind those hinges, should the lid lift. If the soldiers entered this particular tramper to retrieve the missing belt, they shouldn’t have any reason to stick their heads up there, but one had to be prepared.

  He caught Sespian watching him and noting the knife in his hand. He’d drawn it to deal with Heroncrest—the officers were still talking in the tent—but felt the need to justify himself under that solemn gaze. An odd feeling. He’d rarely worried about justifications before. Under Hollowcrest and Raumesys, killing had been the norm not the anomaly.

  The hinges of the belly hatch whined as they opened. Sicarius couldn’t have said anything to Sespian if he’d wished it, not with the soldiers scant feet below.

  “Better oil that in the morning,” one said.

  “The hinges are just cold. So am I. Whose blighted idea was it to lay siege to a fort in the winter?”

  “Ssh, the general’s tent is right over there, you dolt.”

  Thunks and clanks sounded as one of the men unfolded the drop-down ladder and climbed inside the tramper. Sicarius’s hearing told him the other remained below—he was the one smoking. The smell of burning tobacco mingled with the pervasive coal scent in the air.

  Sespian pointed at the roof hatch and spread his arms, palms up, silently asking what the plan was if the soldier opened it. He pointed to Sicarius’s dagger and shook his head once, emphatically.

  Out of habit, Sicarius signed, I won’t kill him, though there wasn’t enough ambient light for Sespian to read the gestures. So long as he got the gist.

  A clunk sounded right below them, followed by a string of curses. “Need a lantern,” the muffled voice said from within.

  Still poised to attack if needed, Sicarius waited while the soldier searched for his missing item inside and kept an eye—and ear—on the rest of the camp. Sespian returned his attention to the tent, no doubt trying to pick out more information for Ridgecrest. Aside from the discovery of the tunnel-boring equipment, they hadn’t learned much that they hadn’t already known or guessed.

  It wasn’t words, however, that reached Sicarius’s ear, causing him to jerk his head up. A distant shout of surprise came from the rear of the camp. It wasn’t from the direction where they’d left the cable, so it couldn’t be related to that.

  The surprised shout turned to a shriek of pain. Cries of, “Get back!” conflicted with orders to, “Help him!”

  Nearby tent flaps were thrust back, and soldiers streamed out buckling ammo belts as they balanced rifles and lanterns in their arms.

  Sicarius gripped Sespian’s arm. “We need to get back to the fort.”

  Sespian turned wide eyes toward him. “The soul construct?”

  Another cry of pain sounded, this one closer and on a direct path inward from the first cries.

  “It’s coming for you,” Sicarius said.

  • • •

  Amaranthe didn’t think she’d let any of her alarm over the announcement that Ms. Worgavic was on the way show on her face, but Books stepped forward and nudged her arm.

  “You said this wouldn’t take long and that I’d be allowed to begin my research of the current socio-political climate in the capital for the paper I’m writing. These times of upheaval must be documented. Yet—” Books tilted his head toward the women, “—it’s been delay after delay. First we had to endure the blockade and the questioning from the soldiers, now this. Perhaps we could return to the boarding house and come back tomorrow, when the process can be expedited.”

  He was trying to give her a way to walk away from the yacht club before Ms. Worgavic showed up, but Amaranthe didn’t want to leave. That would mean abandoning their plan entirely. What she needed was a ride down before Worgavic returned. She supposed it was too much to hope that her old teacher would get her shoe caught in a sewer drain, trip and fall, and be run over by a trolley.

  “You’re staying at a boarding house?” the middle-aged Forge woman asked. “When your parents’ home is only a few miles up the hill?”

  Alarm flashed in Books’s eyes. He’d said the wrong thing, and he knew it.

&
nbsp; “I’ll be visiting them most certainly,” Amaranthe said smoothly, “but the last I’d heard, Mother had turned my old room into a study. After being absent for so long, I wouldn’t wish to intrude upon them. I doubt Retta is staying with them either.”

  Retta blanched and touched her eyepatch. “No.”

  Amaranthe patted Books’s arm. “I understand your concerns, but we needn’t rush. As I’ve told you, you’ll have a firsthand view of the changing of emperors and the rise of a new power if you simply remain with me. My colleagues are spearheading the movement.”

  Books was searching her eyes, probably trying to figure out if she wanted him to continue arguing so she could pretend to eventually give in or if she truly wanted him to drop it.

  “I’m hungry,” Akstyr said. “Do we really have to wait for this pomak?”

  That was one of the Kendorian words Books had taught Amaranthe—a derogatory term that translated to scavenger fish. She hadn’t realized Akstyr had been paying attention. Books didn’t seem as surprised—he gave Akstyr an amused and almost fond look.

  “That had better mean venerable and wise gentlewoman,” one of the Forge people said.

  “Something of that nature,” Books said.

  “I can pilot them out if they want to go now,” Retta said. “It won’t take that long, then I can come back for Ms. Worgavic and the rest of you. I’m quite eager to show my sister around the… ship.” The steady gaze she gave Amaranthe as she spoke suggested she was more interested in throttling her for details of her scheme rather than offering tours. “As some of you know, I’ve been wanting to show her the work I’ve been doing as well.” Bitterness laced the statement, a true one, Amaranthe sensed. Retta wanted to show her sister that, though she’d always been in her shadow when they’d been children, she was now reading the language of, and manipulating tools from, an advanced and utterly foreign race, something few people in the world could claim.

  Amaranthe kept her face neutral. She didn’t know how the real Suan would respond or how much she knew about the Behemoth, if anything.

  “Ms. Worgavic won’t appreciate a delay if she returns and our little tug isn’t here,” one of the younger women said, lips pursing.

  Tug? More like a submarine—it had to be.

  “You can blame me. I don’t mind.” Amaranthe waved her hand airily. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  “Yes, I understand you were one of her students back when she taught math.”

  “Actually, she taught economics,” Amaranthe said, not certain if this was another test or if the woman simply didn’t remember. “But, yes, I was a student at Mildawn.”

  “Ah, economics, of course.” The woman nodded and pointed two fingers at Retta. “Fine, take her out.”

  Good. Amaranthe gave the women a curtsey and a “Thank you,” and turned for the door. She didn’t want to delay, not when Worgavic might come in at any moment.

  “Not them,” the woman said as Books and Akstyr started to follow.

  Amaranthe froze. “Pardon?”

  “Our new… yacht is not for outsiders. They can wait for you at the boarding house.”

  Amaranthe took a moment to make sure none of the panic clutching at her heart reflected on her face, then turned toward the table again. “These aren’t outsiders. They’re my advisers and my allies. I’ve known them for a long time, and we’ve been through a great deal together.”

  “Perhaps they can be invited dow—out at a later time, but not now. You’ll understand when you see the yacht. Tell her, Retta.”

  Amaranthe met Retta’s eyes, hoping for some support.

  Retta licked her lips, glanced at the others, then nodded. “We can’t let strangers down. For our safety and theirs. They might not be ready for… the truth.”

  Books snorted. Akstyr looked intrigued. They were both interested in seeing the inside of that craft, if for different reasons. Their curiosity aside, Amaranthe had reasons of her own for wanting them. Not only would they be necessary for coming up with a plan on how to take over or break the Behemoth somehow, but she’d need them to help her sneak or fight her way to the engine or navigation room, or whatever the craft had, the place of power and control. More than that, she needed… them. There at her back. Helping her and lending support in case… in case… cursed ancestors, she couldn’t face that place alone. Not again.

  “I’m sure they can handle it,” Amaranthe said, shocked that her words came out calmly without terrified squeaks punctuating the words. “For Turgonians, they’re quite ecumenical.”

  “No,” the middle-aged woman said.

  Retta shook her head once, minutely, a silent message in the gesture: Give up this fight. You won’t win.

  “The guards will escort them out,” one of the younger women said. “You can meet up with them again in the city tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” Amaranthe said and struggled to keep a lid on the pot of desperation trying to boil over inside of her. She’d never hyperventilated in her life. She wasn’t going to start now. She hoped.

  Chapter 13

  “Bloody bears, why’s it coming for me?” Sespian whispered. “You’re the one who’s irked the world.”

  Sicarius, scanning their surroundings, didn’t answer. He’d picked an escape route when they first climbed onto the tramper, but with so many soldiers thundering out of their tents now, their lanterns burning away the shadows, there weren’t any obvious paths out of camp. Any direction that he and Sespian ran, they’d be seen. They’d have to risk it and hope their uniforms and the soldiers’ distraction camouflaged them sufficiently.

  “I’m sorry,” Sespian said. “I didn’t mean that I want it to kill you. I just…” He shrugged.

  Sicarius hadn’t been offended. Besides, it’d kill both of them if it found them together. “We’ll go back this way, between the vehicles, then south. Don’t worry about being seen. Cut across the field and back to the fort. If we get separated or there’s not time to reach the walls, meet up at the water tower.”

  “I understand.”

  The shouts were everywhere now, then a screech of utter pain rose above them. It couldn’t be more than a hundred meters away.

  Sicarius rose to both feet, intending to leap down. At that second, the hatch flew open. Sespian had been crossing the roof, following Sicarius, and the metal lid thudded into the side of his knee. His leg buckled, and, in the slick snow, his other foot lost purchase. He dropped hard with a pained grunt.

  Sicarius grabbed Sespian’s arm to pull him to his feet.

  “Blasted ore, what’s—” The soldier, head and torso rising from the hole, whirled toward them. As he turned, he lifted a lantern, and he got a good look at Sicarius’s face.

  He dropped back inside, lunging for something. Sicarius had succeeded in helping Sespian up and pushed him toward the edge.

  “Can you climb down?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just—”

  The soldier’s head popped out again along with a hand holding a pistol. Sicarius had expected it and was already moving. Before the weapon came to bear on him, he’d closed the distance, and his fingers latched around the man’s wrist. Sicarius pulled the arm, forcing the soldier off balance and feinted at his eyes with his dagger. The man tried to yank back, but Sicarius held his wrist fast.

  “Don’t!” Sespian blurted, fooled by the feint.

  Sicarius had already reversed the blade, and it was the hilt he drove into the sensitive flesh between the soldier’s nose and mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes, and the pistol dropped into the snow. The man stumbled on whatever he was standing on, and disappeared below, thumping his head against the rim of the hole as he fell. Sicarius kicked the hatch shut.

  He sensed the approach of danger, of a Science-crafted entity in the same heartbeat as Sespian shouted, “Look out!”

  Instincts blaring, Sicarius flung himself to his belly and rolled sideways. There wasn’t enough room on the roof for the maneuver, and he dropped over the edge. Be
fore his head descended below the level of the roof, he spotted the dark hulking form landing, snow flying as it struck down, claws screeching as they attempted to brake by digging into metal.

  Like a cat, Sicarius twisted in the air, landing feet-first to the ground. Someone was sprinting out from beneath the tramper and toward the tents. At first, he thought it was Sespian, fleeing the wrong way, but the bright red tip of a burning cigarette clenched in the man’s teeth stopped him. It was the second soldier. Where was Sespian? There. He’d jumped down, too, and must have yanked the soldier’s rifle from his hands, for he waited by the front leg of the tramper, the stock of the weapon pressed against his shoulder, the barrel pointed upward. He was ready to fight, ready to shoot the creature when it leaped off the tramper.

  “Mortal weapons can’t hurt it.” Sicarius lunged, grabbing Sespian’s arm, intending to propel him toward the vehicles and the escape route they’d planned.

  Snow dropping from the roof of tramper warned him a split second before the soul construct sailed off the roof, its massive form bigger than four people combined. It landed between the vehicles, twisting to face them.

  Sicarius turned the push into a pull. “This way.”

  They’d have to escape in another direction.

  Sespian fired before obeying. Even though Sicarius was pulling him off balance, the rifle ball hammered into the huge dog-like head, striking between the eyes. It bounced off with all the effectiveness of hail striking a cement sidewalk.

  Sespian might have stood there, stunned, for a moment, but Sicarius grabbed him about the waist and hoisted him onto his shoulder. That elicited a startled squawk and a protest of, “Put me down!” but Sicarius didn’t pay attention. He sprinted toward the tents, knowing that creature could catch them in a heartbeat. He couldn’t run away as fast as he’d like, as soldiers were forming into squads around the vehicle clearing. One rank had dropped to a knee, preparing rifles to fire. He would have to plow through them and hope they gave way.