Forged in Blood II (45 page)

Because he was taking care of business and not worrying needlessly. Sicarius jogged off.

Though the skirmishes had subsided, he stuck to the shadows as he trotted around the back corner of the building toward the garden sheds and vehicle house near the side wall. A woman’s body, crumpled and eviscerated in the snow, made him pause. It was an older, well-dressed woman, her hair still neat in its bun despite the claw marks slashed across her face. Her velvet slippers were inappropriate for the slush-filled courtyard, and she had come outside without a jacket or weapons with which to defend herself.

Sicarius glanced up, and understanding dawned. Of course. A second-story window yawned open. If the makarovi had been hunting Forge founders, and one had been in the Barracks, someone must have decided to rid the building of the bait luring the beasts to attack. That explained the quietness that had come over the courtyard, though sounds of fighting rang out in the city below Arakan Hill.

Soldiers remained at their stations on the parapets, but the makarovi that had lingered at the Barracks must have been killed. Or—he paused near a stairway, noting a mauled body lying athwart several steps—with their mission complete here, the beasts had gone over the walls and escaped into the city.

Sicarius regretted hurling his knife into the shaman’s back. Had they taken her prisoner, she might have been coerced into deactivating those collars. But seeing her charge into the room where Amaranthe was trapped, the woman’s hands raised to attack… He’d thrown that knife without thought. He should have trusted that Amaranthe had a plan and could take care of herself.

It cannot be changed now, he thought, slipping into the back door of the vehicle house. However tough they were, makarovi were not soul constructs; enough bullets—and cannonballs—would bring them down.

A couple of lamps burned in the front of the carriage house, and the soft hisses and groans of steam machinery greeted him. Two armored lorries idled before the wooden double doors in the front wall, and a pair of firemen were shoveling coal in the cab of a third vehicle still in its parking stall.

Convenient. He could take one before the two men had time to react.

He climbed to the top of a small lorry in front of him and jumped from the top of one vehicle to the next to avoid walking down the wide center aisle where he might be spotted. A few seconds before he reached the end of the row, the front doors swung inward. A row of armed soldiers trotted inside, rifles in hands, swords at their belts. The squad split into groups, jogging for the cabins of the waiting vehicles. They didn’t look like men trying to escape, but they also didn’t look like men obeying the orders Sespian would be giving to search the Barracks for bombs. Maybe they’d come down from the battlements and didn’t yet know Sespian was around.

Sicarius hopped down from the parked vehicle, landing in front of a soldier who’d been angling for one of the cabs. The man blurted a surprised curse and swung his rifle around.

Sicarius could have flattened him, if he’d been willing to kill, but instead he hefted the bundle of blasting sticks. Until that moment, he hadn’t been certain why he’d still been carrying the bomb, other than a notion that it ought not be left lying around where someone could stumble across it, but the soldier’s eyes widened when he saw it.

“Shooting me wouldn’t be wise at the moment,” Sicarius said. “This bomb might go off. The blasting sticks are old and unstable. Why are you men not among those searching the Barracks for more booby traps?”

Several other soldiers had come around the front of the lorry, forming a semicircle. Sicarius listened for sounds of people coming up behind him. No one had yet, but there were three other men on the other side of the vehicle, and the two firemen readying the third.

“Booby traps?” a private blurted. “We have to go after the makarovi. They’ve escaped into the city.”

A sergeant jammed an elbow into his ribs. “That’s that assassin, Sicarius. Don’t talk to him.” The sergeant fingered the trigger of his rifle, though he also eyed the blasting sticks and didn’t raise the weapon.

“My team is prepared to deal with the makarovi,” Sicarius said, “and I am taking this vehicle so that we can do so. You people should report to Sespian.”

“Sespian!” The private glanced to the sergeant. The rest of the men did too.

“Sespian is dead,” the sergeant said.

“Sespian has returned to reclaim the throne.” Without drawing attention to his hand, Sicarius loosened the wires around the bundle of blasting sticks. “Ravido Marblecrest is his prisoner. If you don’t want to be punished or discharged for serving a false master, you should report to him now. He’s at the back of the building. Get his orders.” And get out of my way, so I can get this lorry for Amaranthe, he thought. He was wasting his time; these men wouldn’t believe him. But the alternative was to take action that would harm—or kill—them.

“Shoot him, sergeant,” another private whispered. “You’ve seen the papers, seen what he’s been doing. And we all know how many of our brothers he’s killed in the past. It’s worth dying here if he’ll die too.”

Sicarius thought about saying he’d been working for Sespian in killing the Forge people, but that might cause backlash for his son. The sergeant’s eyes hardened, his chin firming with resolve, and the time to talk was over anyway.

Sicarius pulled out one of the blasting sticks he’d loosened from the bundle and lobbed it toward the sergeant. He sprinted for the rear of the lorry.

“Look out!”

“Catch it—don’t let it—”

Their focus on the stick kept them from shooting at him. Sicarius ran to the far side of the second lorry, intending to leap in and drive it away before the soldiers could coordinate an attack… so long as the blasting stick didn’t explode, blowing up the vehicles and bringing the roof down.

A hint of movement came from his left, from down the center aisle. With the blasting stick bundle still tucked under one arm, he hurled a throwing knife. He
could
have taken the fireman in the throat—the man had stepped around a vehicle with a pistol in hand—but the blade bit into the flesh of his hand instead. The pistol dropped to the floor, and its owner leaped back behind the lorry, cursing.

“Got it,” one of the privates yelled.

The remaining three soldiers were standing near the cab of the vehicle Sicarius intended to take. One was glancing around the front, toward his clamoring comrades, but the other two were facing the rear, right where Sicarius came out.

He sprinted at them without hesitating, watching the fingers on their rifles. When the weapons came up, aimed at his chest, Sicarius zigged to the side. Figuring one might anticipate an attempt to dodge, he leaped in the less obvious direction: toward the vehicle.

The rifles fired, but the shots didn’t come close. Sicarius ran up the side of the cargo bed three steps, jumping before his momentum broke, and launched himself at the pair. He twisted in the air and kicked out with both legs. The soldier on the right caught a booted heel in the face and flew backward. The man on the left reacted more quickly, and almost evaded the kick, but, in midair, Sicarius hooked his leg and clobbered him in the side of the head.

By then, the third was spinning toward the fight, but Sicarius landed too close for him to fire. Instead of reverting to hand-to-hand, the soldier tried to leap back so he had room to use his rifle. Sicarius caught the barrel and yanked, pulling his foe off balance. Knowing he had no time for finesse, he grabbed the back of the man’s neck and slammed his face into the front of the lorry.

The other two men were trying to rise. On his way into the cab, Sicarius stomped on one’s hand and kicked the other’s knee out from under him. He lunged inside, gripping the controls without bothering to sit. He did take a second to gently rest the remaining blasting sticks on the passenger seat, then he thrust the vehicle into forward. Startled shouts came from the front—the men he’d diverted with the blasting stick racing over to join the fight. Too late.

Sicarius barreled past them, ducking low in anticipation of shooting. It came, but not until he’d rolled past their positions. A bullet entered the cab from the side and erupted through the windshield.

Others ricocheted off the side of the lorry, but that first shot was the only one to come close. Still, the men chased after him. As soon as Sicarius cleared the vehicle house, he turned a hard right, the wheels throwing up slush, pelting the fastest soldiers. Not much of an attack, but their curses elicited a modicum of satisfaction within him.

“Throw the blasting stick,” someone yelled.

“It’s a dud.”

“No, you have to light it. Here.”

Sicarius pressed the lorry to greater speed. His diversion might backfire on him if they ending up using the stick to blow
him
up.

As soon as the vehicle reached the end of the Barracks, he turned a hard left to bring it parallel with the back of the building. More slush sprayed, this time striking men who were standing in an orderly queue guarding other men. The prisoners, Sicarius realized. Sespian must have ordered them brought up from the dungeon for the evacuation.

He spotted Sespian’s tidy black uniform with its gold piping, and Maldynado and Basilard at his side. Amaranthe was coming up the basement stairs, Akstyr and Books trailing.

A harsh squeal rent the air as Sicarius threw on the brakes. Dozens of surprised faces turned in his direction. Fortunately, Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr hustled toward him without hesitation, each carrying a rifle or pistol, swords, and bulging ammo pouches.

“Get in,” Sicarius barked, leaning out to check on his pursuers.

The fastest of the soldiers rounded the corner of the building. The rearmost man gripped the blasting stick in one hand and a lantern in the other, both raised, as if he meant to light the fuse at any second.

“Halt,” Sespian called, stepping forward and lifting a palm. Perhaps more influentially, Maldynado and Basilard raised rifles at the oncoming men. Two soldiers, men he must have already recruited, stepped in front of Sespian, also with firearms at the ready.

“Put down your weapons,” one of them, a man with lieutenant’s rank pins, called.

“But, sir,” one of the lorry’s pursuers protested. “That’s Sicarius. The assassin.”

While this exchange was going on, Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr piled into the cab behind Sicarius.

“We’re ready,” Amaranthe urged.

Sicarius waited, though, wanting to make certain his son had everything under control. With the prisoners nearby and men who’d been working for Ravido not fifteen minutes before now supposedly on his side, the situation could quickly devolve into chaos.

“Where’s Ravido?” Sicarius asked. “Being kept with the general prisoners?”

“No,” Books said. “Someone—” he gave Amaranthe a long look, “—decided he should be involved in the search for more incendiary devices.”

Akstyr snickered, as if unaware of the tension outside. “Yara is bossing him around the way she does Maldynado. He’ll probably end up stepping on a mine just to get away from her nagging.”

“I am aware of that,” Sespian said, responding to the man with the blasting stick. “The others are outlaws. I’m giving them a chance to redeem themselves by defeating the makarovi.”

“But we were going to chase after the makarovi. Sir. Sire. Uhm.” The confused soldiers looked at each other. The one holding the blasting stick and lantern lowered the items.

“There is a situation here that requires attention. Fill them in, Lieutenant.” Sespian didn’t take his eyes from the men, but he did wave at the lorry.
Get out of here
, that gesture said.
Do your mission. I’m fine.

Yes, Sicarius decided, it seemed he could. Pleased that his son had brought the situation under control, he nudged the lorry forward. With so many people now gathered behind the Barracks, he steered through the courtyard at a less frenetic pace, but as soon as they passed through the gates—someone had instructed the soldiers to open them—he pushed the vehicle to a greater speed. In the city, fires burned up and down the hills sloping down toward the lake; there was more trouble about than the makarovi could account for.

• • •

Amaranthe gripped the back of the seat beside Sicarius and stared out at the dark, slushy streets. They’d already started passing mauled bodies. Not many—the collars had sent the makarovi on a mission, after all, and they were taking the most direct path toward it—but enough. Shouts came from the rooftops of buildings, and lights burned behind shuttered windows and locked doors. The entire city seemed to be awake.

Aside from the bodies, the streets were empty, at least around the base of Arakan Hill. Torches moved in the distance, down by the waterfront. Her chest tightened, and a slight tremble shook her belly, one that had nothing to do with the vibrations of the lorry. She hadn’t wanted to be right about Suan and the makarovi, but Ravido had confirmed it. How much time had passed since those first creatures had left the tunnel? Hours, she feared. Even if they’d paused to… hunt along the way, they were sure to have reached the factory by now. Amaranthe had barely gotten to know Tikaya and Mahliki, but she nonetheless dreaded the thought of losing them.

“Since nobody else is asking,” Akstyr said from his spot behind Sicarius, “why are there blasting sticks in the other seat?”

Sicarius, his face intent as he concentrated on the slippery roads—and perhaps he was watching those torches, too, thinking similar thoughts as Amaranthe—did not reply.

“I assumed that Sicarius, aware of Amaranthe’s tendency for causing explosions, thought to facilitate her ability to induce them by giving those as… a gift,” Books said. “Blasting sticks get more reliable and, ah, speedier results than setting up catastrophic boiler failures in steam vehicles.”

Books was standing in the middle, gripping the ceiling to keep from flying out when they turned corners. Nobody had dared pick up those sticks and slide into the seat next to Sicarius.

“Aw,” Amaranthe said, “did you bring these along for me, Sicarius? That
is
quite thoughtful.” She almost added a comment about appreciating them as much as her pastry from Curi’s, but didn’t know if he’d want her letting others know he’d done something so domestic as bringing her sweets. Besides, the shock might cause Books to lose his grip on that ceiling bar and fall out of lorry.