Forged in Blood I (47 page)

Amaranthe swallowed. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him say please. It had to be a testament to how close he was to pitching over the edge of the precipice.

Shots rang out from the direction of the lift.

“Down,” Amaranthe cried even as she flung herself to the floor beside Akstyr.

Bullets ricochetted off the walls. Many bullets. The flames had blinded them to the newcomers’ arrival, but Amaranthe cursed herself for having been caught unaware. Keeping her head to the floor, she searched all about, as if some hiding spot might have appeared in the room in the time she and Books had been gone. It hadn’t. Retta remained standing, sweat streaming from her temples as she continued to work the floating controls.

“Those cabinets,” Amaranthe said. “Books, can you open them?”

A shot fired, this time from their side. Flat on his stomach, Books had wriggled to the closest wall, and had the rifle trained in the direction of the lift. He hadn’t heard her request. She grimaced, not certain if returning fire was a good idea or not. It would let those on the other side of the flames know exactly where her people were. Still hunkered by Akstyr, she didn’t want to draw fire. His eyes were glassy, distant. She wasn’t certain he knew people were shooting at them.

Without warning, the curtain of fire dropped.

“Akstyr,” she blurted. She couldn’t blame him for getting tired, but this wasn’t the time to drop the only camouflage they had.

“It wasn’t me,” he whispered back. “Someone made me drop it.”

“Huh?”

Four guards had charged out of the lift, each facing a different direction, each with a rifle poised and ready. Two women stood on the pad behind them. One was Ms. Worgavic—emperor’s warts, who’d driven her down here?—but the other was the bigger concern at the moment. A tattooed woman in a buckskin dress stood beside her, eyes half-lidded in intense thought as she gazed about her.

“Drop your weapons,” the lead guard ordered.

Outnumbered or not, Amaranthe wasn’t keen to obey. If she hadn’t been beside Akstyr, uncertain whether he could move to flee or protect himself, she would have fired back and sprinted for those cabinets.

“The cubes!” Books barked.

Cursed ancestors, she’d forgotten about them. With the flames gone, they’d decided to float into the room.

“Bring back the fire,” Amaranthe called toward Worgavic and the shaman. “They’re targeting everybody, your people too!”

She grabbed Akstyr and pulled him toward Books and the wall farthest from the door, hoping the guards would be too busy looking at the cubes to worry about shooting people getting out of the way. And if her team was farther from the cubes than the other group, they’d go over there first, right? Maybe.

“Retta,” Amaranthe hissed. “This way.”

“I’ve almost got it fixed,” Retta said, her fingers still flying. “We’ve broken the surface of the lake. We either have to—”

“Shoot them,” Ms. Worgavic said, her words icy as they cut over the rest of the voices in the room, “then get back in the lift before those things get over here.”

Shoot
them
? The torturing hadn’t been bad enough? As the guards swung their firearms toward them, Amaranthe whipped up her own rifle in response. She wouldn’t get all of them, but if she could get Ms. Worgavic…

“Akstyr,” Books whispered. “Do something!”

“I can’t.”

Amaranthe fired. The bullet should have taken Ms. Worgavic in the chest, but it bounced off some invisible shield. She wanted to clench her fist and shake it in frustration, but three other rifles were coming to bear on her. She buried her head under her arms, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.

Several men yelped, then something clattered to the floor. Their weapons?

“Nice,” Books said, “you did that right, Akstyr?”

“Made them too hot to hold, yes, but—”

A shriek came, a far greater cry of pain than the previous yells. The cubes had closed on the party by the lift, and two beams streaked out, one catching a man too busy trying to pick up his dropped rifle to react in time. The shaman frowned at the deadly floating devices and lifted her hands.

Amaranthe jumped to her feet. “Let’s get out of here while they’re distracted. Retta, time to go.” She took a step in that direction—she’d pick Retta up and fling her over her shoulder if she had to.

Before she finished her step, a huge cone of fire shot from the lift, from the shaman’s outstretched arms. Her eyes seemed to glow red, reflecting the wicked orange light. The flames engulfed the cubes, but they spanned half the room and also engulfed—

A feminine scream of sheer terror and pain came from the center of the inferno. Retta.

Amaranthe lunged in that direction, as if she could do something, pull the other woman out of the flames, but heat blasted against her face. She couldn’t get close. A hand clamped around her arm, Books pulling her back. Akstyr was slumped against the wall, his arm up as a ward against the heat. They were on the edge of the inferno, the route to the doors blocked by a curtain of flames. All Amaranthe could do was plaster her back to the wall alongside Books and Akstyr and wait.

Retta’s screams stopped, and Amaranthe clenched her eyes shut. All she’d done here was get people killed.

Someone else screamed—one of the guards?

“It’s not working!”

“They’re still coming!”

Akstyr wiped his face and muttered, “Didn’t do it right.”

In a wink, the flames vanished.

The lift, along with Ms. Worgavic and the shaman, had disappeared. The bodies of the guards littered the floor in their wake.

Undamaged, the two cubes still floated in the air, incinerating the dead men.

“Not again,” Books whispered, staring.

Amaranthe’s own stare was in the other direction, toward the charred unrecognizable woman lying on the floor, limbs twisted and unmoving. She opened her mouth, a self-pitying, “Why?” forming—why couldn’t any of her plans ever work out without people getting killed, and why couldn’t she learn to stop putting others in these situations?—but Akstyr poked her and shoved Books.

“Lifeboat, right? We gotta go.”

Amaranthe pushed away from the wall—and her condemning thoughts, leaving them to haunt her later, along with all the others. “Yes.”

They sprinted across the room, angling for the closest door.

“Who’s going to pilot that lifeboat?” Books asked.

Amaranthe would have answered—not that she
had
an answer—but the movement of the cubes caught her eye. She thought they’d have time to make it through the door, that the cleaning artifacts would finish incinerating the bodies before chasing after her team, but they were, as one, already floating after them.

• • •

Full darkness descended on the snowy field as Sicarius drove across it, the lorry bumping and slipping on the fresh powder. The big vehicle performed acceptably, given that there was no road beneath it. He had chosen a direct path toward the army camp, hoping the trip back would go more quickly if he could retrace the trail broken by his own tires. If things went as planned, he wouldn’t be able to afford any delays on that return trip.

The snow had stopped, with dusk bringing a clearer sky, so he hadn’t lit the exterior lanterns on the lorry. Had he done so, the camp’s roving guards would have seen the lorry from a mile away. The only thing he wanted seeing him was the soul construct.

He approached the camp from the north, knowing he’d be upwind of the creature. If it was still in the hills behind the tents, its otherworldly senses ought to be able to smell him from miles off. Sicarius eyed the stars coming out above. It might have already left to hunt, bypassing the ice camp and traveling straight to Fort Urgot, straight to Sespian.

Stay with the plan, he told himself. If he didn’t find the creature in the camp, he’d drive to the fort. He couldn’t hear the booms and cracks of the battle raging there, not over the rumble of the lorry and the hisses of escaping steam, but he knew the fighting was still going on—he’d heard cannons cracking before leaving the lake. That
should
mean the walls hadn’t been breached yet.

A mile and a half away from General Flintcrest’s camp, Sicarius stopped the lorry. He dared not drive the vehicle any closer. Even without the lanterns to alert the soldiers, its noise would carry over the flat field. He might already be too close, but he dared not park farther away, not when he had to outrun the soul construct, make it back to the lorry, and drive all the way back to the ice camp before it caught up to him. That trap would be for naught if he couldn’t reach it.

Before jumping out of the lorry, Sicarius added coal to the furnace, ensuring the boiler would be hot and ready when he returned. Outside, away from the heat of the cab, the frosty air wrapped around him. The temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees with the disappearance of the clouds; it’d be a cold night to throw himself into the lake.

He licked his finger and tested the wind. Yes, it was blowing his scent toward the camp.

Sicarius jogged a couple hundred meters away from the lorry and crouched, listening for telltale howls in the night. Nothing stirred. With the vehicle stopped, it wasn’t making noise, and he could hear a few clanks and shouts from the camp.

He stood, deciding he’d have to go closer. Before he took a step, the first eerie howl drifted across the plain. Sicarius turned around, unease slithering into his stomach. The sound hadn’t come from the camp, but from the northeast. The soul construct was between him and Fort Urgot somewhere. It was either on its way, or it was returning. If it was on its way… he had to divert it. Unfortunately, his plans to make sure he was upwind of the camp now meant he was downwind of the creature. It might catch his scent anyway, but he couldn’t count on it.

Sicarius ran back to the lorry and jumped into the cab. Another howl drifted down from the northeast, audible over the firing of weapons beyond it. He turned the vehicle in the direction of Fort Urgot and watched the field ahead. Maybe he should have stopped long enough to light the lamps, but, no, he’d have an easier time picking out that dark shape on the white snow without flames dulling his night vision. In the back of his mind, he admitted that he might not make it back to the lake if he waited until he was close enough to see it. It couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t let it hunt Sespian, especially not tonight, when he, Maldynado, and Basilard would be distracted by the battle.

Ears and eyes straining, Sicarius bumped over the uneven snow, urging the lorry to travel faster, willing the soul construct to catch his scent and turn away from the fort. The howls had stopped, or they’d moved too far away to hear.

He glanced toward the odometer, judging the distance to Fort Urgot. In that heartbeat that his eyes weren’t focused on the field ahead of him, the soul construct appeared out of the darkness. It was bounding across the snow toward him.

He’d survived too many near-death experiences to react with some thoughtless yank of the controls that would have made the vehicle skid in the snow. He carefully turned around, angling toward the lake. Only when he was facing in the right direction did he urge the lorry to its maximum speed.

Snow churned and flew up from the tires, some of it finding its way into the cab, pelting Sicarius. He alternated between watching the route ahead—the packed path he’d carefully made on his way to Flintcrest’s camp was two miles to the south now and useless—and glancing out of the cab, tracking the construct’s progress.

Its powerful legs pumped, propelling it through the snow in great leaps, each one eating meters of earth. The fresh powder didn’t deter it at all. As Sicarius had feared, even with the lorry at full speed, the creature was gaining on him.

A wheel found a rut hidden beneath the snow, and the vehicle lurched. The rest of the wheels skidded, and it swerved, catching another rut. Sicarius kept his balance in the rocking cab, but the jolts reminded him to keep his gaze on the field. Driving at night, at top speed, in the snow was asking for—

A chilling screech, more like the undulating cries of coyotes than the wail of a wolf, cut through his thoughts, raising the hairs on his arms. There was exhilaration in that unnatural baying, the delight of the hunt. Strange how some creature summoned into existence by a practitioner could feel the same exuberance as a flesh-and-blood beast.

The lake came into sight ahead, but the ice camp wasn’t on the horizon yet. Sicarius estimated it four or five miles away. He was making good time, despite the bumping jolts of the lorry racing too fast over a field that wasn’t nearly as flat as it looked, but he didn’t know if it was good enough.

The undulating cry came again, closer this time. Sicarius glanced behind the cab but didn’t see the creature.

A thump sounded, something striking the vehicle. No, something
landing
on the vehicle. Claws scraped at the cab above Sicarius’s head followed by an ear-splitting squeal of metal. What was it doing? Tearing off the top of the smokestack?

He turned left, then right, trying to swerve with enough force to throw the creature free. More metal squealed, as if claws were digging in, trying to find purchase to keep its massive body aboard.

A paw swiped in from the open side of the cab. Without taking his hands from the controls, Sicarius dropped into a squat so deep his butt smacked the floor. The claws swept in, tearing his cap from his head. Another centimeter, and he would have lost his scalp.

Before the paw retracted, Sicarius shoved at the levers again. This time the vehicle turned so violently, the wheels lost all traction on the snow, and it skidded several feet, the back end spinning in the opposite direction. Sicarius grabbed at the brake bar above his head. Steam screeched like an injured beast as it was released into the night. The brakes caught more fully than he expected, and a lurch jolted the vehicle, nearly pitching him through the windshield.

The construct flew from the roof, its giant hound-like form rolling sideways several times when it hit the snow.

Sicarius urged the vehicle into motion again. The creature’s roll was slowing, but it hadn’t recovered yet. He steamed right toward it.