05 Dragon Blood: The Blade's Memory

  Cas snorted noisily.

  Kaika had walked out of the smoke-filled dungeon, pushing the door shut behind her, but she halted before taking another step. “I’m not leaving until I talk to the queen.”

  “Talk? Or interrogate her?” Sardelle asked. “I don’t think either is a good idea. We’re seconds away from being discovered as it is, and she’s up there in the middle of one of her sisterhood meetings.” In truth, Sardelle hadn’t searched the auras in that room, so she could not say for certain that the queen was in there, but it seemed logical. If nothing else, she needed to hand out all of the pamphlets she had made.

  “You know where she is? Perfect.” Kaika strode toward the stairs, her pistols still gripped in her hands.

  Sardelle rushed to catch up with her, grabbing one forearm. “There are soldiers everywhere. You’ll be seen before you get to her.”

  “Define everywhere.”

  “All of the halls. We barely made it down here without being noticed. We had to hide multiple times. We’re fairly certain they let the news leak out that you were being hanged tonight, in order to ensure we—your allies—tried to break you out. They’re setting a trap, if they haven’t already.”

  “I was to be hanged tonight?” Kaika lifted her sooty brows.

  “Or at dawn. Apex was fuzzy on the details.”

  “You find out where the king is being held yet?”

  “We have a lead. Therrik thought he had been taken to a lighthouse.”

  “Oh.” Kaika used the muzzle of one of the pistols to scratch her chin. “There are a lot of lighthouses in Iskandia.”

  “Yes, it’s not a perfect lead.”

  Cas jogged to the bottom of the stairs and tilted her head toward the door at the top. What had she heard?

  Jaxi?

  The guards upstairs haven’t been noticed yet, though they have thumped at the door a few times. The meeting is underway in the other room. They’re probably sacrificing some chickens or something noisy.

  Is anything else going on?

  There are a lot of soldiers on the ground floor, both inside and out. They might be setting that trap you were thinking about.

  So, Sardelle thought, it would be hard to get out?

  Remember that notion you had of shielding yourself and charging past legions of soldiers shooting at you?

  Yes…

  That could still happen.

  Wonderful.

  “She’ll know where he is,” Kaika said. “Without a doubt.”

  Sardelle did not know if Kaika was trying to convince herself, or if she had heard something that verified their suspicions. Either way, there wasn’t time to ask.

  Kaika spun toward her. “If we have to fight our way out of here, can you keep us alive? I heard you can stop bullets.”

  “I would prefer not to fight, but I can shield us from fire, yes. Not indefinitely, mind you.”

  Kaika nodded. “Good enough.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather escape, let me heal your wound, and try to contact the queen another time?” Sardelle asked.

  “No.” She strode up the stairs.

  Sardelle followed while wishing she had a better feeling about all of this.

  • • • • •

  “We were outnumbered, at least twenty to one,” Ridge said, sharing his second or third tale with Private Gormen, who was now off-duty. After finishing his shift, the young soldier had returned with the promised atlas, and Ridge had double-checked his map and his memory. The atlas did not mention lighthouses, but seeing the contours of the coast helped him remember two more spots that could serve as out-of-the-way prisons. Now, he just had to figure out how to get out of this cell and up to the hangar, so he could grab that two-person flier and hope he wasn’t shot down by the city’s artillery weapons as he took off.

  “Their airship was armored, with some shaman protecting the balloon too,” Ridge continued. “It was my first encounter with magic. Before that, I’d been like my mom, believing it didn’t exist. It’s hard to maintain that belief when an airship starts flinging bolts of lightning at your flier.”

  “What’d you do, sir?”

  “Started flying on top of their balloon, so they couldn’t target me. Crash and the Milkman—he’s retired now—flew under it, tried to find a way through that armoring and to their engines. When the shaman was distracted with them, I swooped down, did a strafing run on their deck. Flew right between the ship and the balloon. Managed to cut through some of the supports, too, so the back of the deck was dangling down, and the shaman was too busy trying not to fall into the ocean thousands of feet below to bother with me. About a hundred other Cofah wanted to shoot at me, but I snugged right up to the balloon, so they realized they were cutting holes into it with each shot. Finally, I took a nice handmade explosive, a gift from the artillery fellows, and tossed it at the tank delivering hydrogen to the balloon. Got out of there about half a second before the biggest explosion you’ve ever seen.”

  The on-duty guard, who was stationed up the hall and out of Ridge’s sight, let out a low whistle. Ridge didn’t know if his storytelling was doing anything useful—wouldn’t it be easier to escape if the guards weren’t paying any attention to him?—but had some vague notion of establishing a rapport with the men. The bars on the cell door and the window were quite sturdy, so he could never escape without human intervention. He couldn’t bring himself to ask either of them for a key, both because it would be deleterious for their careers and because he was skeptical as to whether they would let him go, but with time, maybe he might find an opportunity to slip a key off one of their belts. Especially if he could get the on-duty fellow to come join him and Private Gormen for a drink—Gormen had brought a second bottle of beer when he had returned with the atlas.

  “That was in the early days of Cofah airships,” Ridge said. “Back when we were all using hydrogen, before we realized it was too easy to blow up. There were even non-combat-related accidents where the gas simply caught fire through some crew error and took the ship down. We’ve all switched to helium now. As I saw on my last mission, the Cofah have fliers, too—they stole our design, the bastards. And some other weapons. Any future battles are going to be tough. They always had superior numbers, but we had our fliers, which are of course far more maneuverable than their plodding airships. Things won’t be easy going forward.”

  Ridge resisted the urge to rail about the lack of fliers defending the city at the moment.

  “Sir,” came a terse greeting from the out-of-sight guard.

  The off-duty one’s eyes widened as he looked up the hallway, and he shifted the bottle of beer behind his back.

  Had Colonel Porthlok come back to start his interrogation? It was late for that—it had to be nearing midnight. Ridge hadn’t expected more company until at least dawn. Maybe he had run out of time and should have been trying harder to find a key.

  “This how you guard a prisoner, Private?” a gruff male voice asked.

  Ridge slumped against the wall. He recognized Colonel Therrik’s voice before the man walked into view, glowering at Gormen.

  “No-no, sir,” Gormen stammered. “I’m off-duty, sir. I was just…” He waved vaguely at Ridge.

  “I asked him to keep me company,” Ridge said, hoping to keep Therrik from contemplating some punishment for the young soldier, not that he particularly wanted to draw Therrik’s ire toward himself. Whatever had brought the man here at this hour, it couldn’t be anything good. Maybe he wanted revenge for the beating he believed he had received at Ridge’s hands. “You know how needy I am,” he added. “I get terribly lonely if I don’t have anyone to tell my stories to.”

  Therrik grunted, then jerked a thumb toward the exit. “Take your beer and get out of here before I report you.”

  Gormen flashed a quick salute at Ridge—an action that made Therrik scowl—then darted around the big man. He looked relieved that reporting was all that Therrik had mentioned. Given his reputation for pummeling young privat
es and academy cadets, that wasn’t surprising. Ridge wondered if he was about to be pummeled. He almost joked that Therrik should be nicer to young people, so that he wouldn’t be the subject of vandalism so often, but clamped his mouth shut before the words could escape. As far as Ridge knew, Therrik had no reason to suspect he and Tolemek had been anywhere near his house. It would be better for his health if Therrik continued to believe that.

  “I heard you were drawing on the wall in here like a three-year-old.” Therrik held a lantern up to the bars and stared at the map at the back of the cell.

  “Now, Colonel, I take exception to that comment. I believe I have at least the artistic skills of a five-year-old.”

  “You’re known for being delusional.”

  Ridge looked at the map. “A four-year-old?”

  Therrik’s face remained stony, his dark, dull eyes offering no hint that he appreciated the humor.

  “You heard about the lighthouse too,” Therrik said, his hard gaze shifting toward Ridge.

  Too? Ah, right. Therrik wouldn’t have sensed the information being plucked from his mind. But if he thought Ridge had some intel that he needed, did that mean he had come for an interrogation? An unsanctioned one? Or maybe Porthlok had secretly sanctioned it.

  “I’ve been all along the coasts,” Ridge said carefully. “I don’t think I have any more information than you do, but I can only think of a few lighthouses that would make viable prisons, especially if someone wanted to hide someone extremely recognizable for the long term.”

  “And you want to search them.”

  “Seems like a logical approach. A lot of the problems we have would go away if King Angulus returned.” And his flier squadrons, but Ridge didn’t want to risk bringing that up again. He did wonder if Therrik had been back up to the hangar and had seen if any messages had been returned.

  “I don’t suppose you would go away,” Therrik grumbled.

  A few sarcastic comments floated to mind, but Ridge kept his mouth shut. Grumpy Therrik was an improvement over cruel Therrik, and he was waiting for the man to tell him why he had come. No need to distract him with clever repartee.

  Therrik fished in his pocket. Ridge anticipated everything from brass knuckles to a garrote wire to some compact torture device. What he didn’t anticipate was a key, though maybe he should have. After all, torture implements would be easier to use without bars in the way.

  “I’m out of beer,” Ridge said. “No need for you to come in.”

  “I bet you swilled it without even thinking that it might be poisoned.”

  “I would have thought that in a Cofah prison, but Private Gormen seemed genuinely interested in my tales.”

  “I’ll bet.” Therrik shoved the door open.

  Ridge tensed, all too aware that he didn’t have Sardelle to help him this time.

  But instead of stepping in, Therrik stepped back. “Get out. Go find the king.”

  Ridge looked from him to the key, noting a piece of tape around the fat end. This wasn’t the same key as the guards wore on the rings on their belts.

  “Is this authorized?” Ridge asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure what to think. I figured you came to beat me into a pulp.”

  Therrik’s eyes brightened, and his fingers curled into a fist. “I would be happy to do that. Maybe it would make your escape look more real.”

  “Uh, that’s not necessary.” Ridge would have preferred to wait until Therrik left before venturing out—in the tight corridor out there, he would have to get uncomfortably close to the man to squeeze out of his cell. But he might not get another chance, or Therrik might change his mind.

  Ridge took a breath and stepped through the gate. He noticed two things: that the guard at the head of the corridor was not there… and that Therrik grabbed him.

  Ridge jerked his arm up in an attempt to block, but Therrik threw his weight behind the attack, his hands a blur. He knocked aside Ridge’s arm, even as he smashed Ridge into the bars beside the gate. Hard metal bit into his back, and his head clunked against iron. Ridge got his arms up to protect his throat, but all Therrik did was pin him there, his hands curled into Ridge’s uniform jacket.

  “I don’t believe you bested me, you untrained chair jockey,” Therrik growled. “I can’t see it, but you better be the man those starry-eyed privates think you are.” Therrik shoved Ridge and let him go.

  Ridge gripped the bars to keep from falling. He would love to slam a fist into that sneering face, but he was too busy trying to figure out what was going on to truly be angry.

  Therrik thrust a finger toward his nose. “If you don’t find the king, don’t bother coming back.”

  Without waiting for acknowledgment, Therrik stalked up the corridor. He slammed the door on his way out and did not look back.

  Ridge couldn’t begin to figure out that man—and a big part of him wondered if Therrik was setting him up to be shot, letting him go so the MPs would see him as an escaped prisoner and unleash the hounds on him. But he willed his legs into motion, anyway. This might be his only chance to find the king. If he didn’t… Therrik wasn’t the only one who could make Ridge’s life miserable—or make it over—when he came back.

  Chapter 11

  Someone had noticed the guards were not at their post.

  Sardelle grimaced, but was not surprised. At least twenty minutes had passed since she and Cas had stuffed them into that room. If Kaika wanted to barge into the queen’s meeting, they should have gone straight there from the dungeon, but Kaika had insisted on stopping in the kitchen to make explosives. Technically, it was a storage pantry in the back of the kitchen. Enough of the staff had been working in the main room, its ovens fired up and a giant mechanical mixing machine clanking and churning, that hiding had been necessary.

  “We should go,” Cas grumbled, pacing. In the pantry, she could only go three steps before turning around. Every time she spun, Sardelle worried the hilt of her sword would catch on one of the flour bags stacked against one wall, tear it open, and make a mess. “There have been too many delays already. Trying to get into that meeting is going to get us killed.”

  “I agree,” Sardelle said.

  Cas stopped and stared at her. “You do?”

  They were alone in the pantry, waiting for Kaika to return. Kaika had made up her explosives with impressive speed, but then she had insisted on leaving Sardelle and Cas behind while she sneaked back to the dungeon and planted a bomb. “It’ll be a distraction when we need it,” she’d said, “and it should finish the job the other one didn’t quite manage: collapsing the rubble in my cell so people think I’m dead under the pile, and they don’t come looking for me.”

  Sardelle questioned how viable of a distraction it would make. Would the noise even be heard? It seemed nobody had heard the first explosion. Either the dungeon was not directly under a part of the castle where anyone was working, or when the architects had designed it a thousand years earlier, they had ensured it was insulated enough that the residents did not have to listen to the cries of torture victims.

  Sardelle nodded to Cas’s question. “We were able to get her. I think we’re spitting in Fate’s face by lingering.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” Cas went back to pacing. “It would be one thing if we could fight these people, but we can’t. I understand the captain’s drive to find the king, but…”

  Sardelle held up a hand. “Someone’s coming.” She stood next to the door, listening with her ears and her mind.

  “That woman really wants her flour.” Cas pressed herself into a corner between two shelving units, the sword scabbard clunking against the wall. Kasandral might be invisible to most people, but the blade was definitely there.

  The last time the cook had headed for the pantry, Sardelle had distracted her with the subtle suggestion that a taste of the boar turning on the spit would be far preferable to retrieving flour for cookies that were destined to go upstairs to the meeting instead
of being consumed by the kitchen staff. Sardelle reached out, intending to make another suggestion, but a second figure jogged into the range of her senses. Kaika.

  Afraid she wouldn’t see the cook and would crash right into her, Sardelle almost spoke to her telepathically, but she worried she would startle Kaika when the captain needed her concentration. In the half second she was debating this, Kaika came across the cook. Even though Sardelle had her ear pressed to the door, she did not hear anything. Only her senses informed her when the cook had been subdued and dragged off.

  “Kaika’s back,” Sardelle whispered, and eased the door open.

  Few lamps burned in this back half of the kitchen, but she could tell the cook was nowhere to be seen. Kaika strode out from behind some cooling racks with a ball of twine and a grin. “We’re all set.”

  Sardelle checked on the cook, found her tied and gagged in the corner, and shook her head. With or without explosives, their plan, such as it was, had to be close to tumbling down around them.

  “Where’s the meeting?” Kaika whispered. Other staff were still working at the front of the kitchen.

  “This way.” Sardelle headed for the door they had come in earlier.

  Kaika gripped her shoulder before she could push it open. “Thanks for helping me,” she whispered. “Again. When we find the king, I’ll make sure he knows what you did and that you were loyal to him too.”

  Sardelle nodded, though she wasn’t sure she wanted the king knowing what she had done here, which had included snooping through his wife’s possessions and breaking into his castle twice. She also wasn’t sure Kaika had any sway with him. Would he even know who some captain in the army was? Sardelle kept the thoughts to herself.

  With Jaxi helping to guide her again, she led the others through hallways that eventually took them back to the stairs. Every time soldiers were in their way, Sardelle’s group had to divert—or find a way to distract those soldiers. She teased one into leaving his post with the scent of cookies baking in the kitchen, and Jaxi convinced a couple of others to run to the lavatory.