Forged in Blood I (41 page)

The snow had stopped, and a few stars peered between the clouds overhead. With the increased visibility, he made out a lantern burning a half mile away, somewhere near the lakeshore. He pulled up his mental map of the area. That ought to be the ice cutting camp he and Amaranthe had visited for a mission the year before, the only one that claimed permanent dwellings and housed machinery outside of the city. Sicarius would have to deviate from the construct’s path to visit it, but it might be worth it. Following the creature wasn’t enough; he had to come up with a way to kill it, or at least render it permanently unable to move. So long as it was out there, he and Sespian would both be vulnerable to an attack, one that might come when they were distracted by another battle. He could see his own death coming that way, but more, he could see Sespian’s. To lose him, after all of this effort to protect him and after they were finally exchanging… banter, as Amaranthe would call it, would be—he clenched his jaw—unacceptable.

Sicarius veered toward the camp. It wouldn’t take long to survey, and it was probably not a bad idea to come later to the soul construct’s destination, when its master assumed there’d be no retaliation for the night’s activities.

Even with the snow slowing his pace, he covered the half mile in a couple of minutes, and reached the outskirts of the camp. The light came from a single guiding lantern posted near a concrete dock that stretched a quarter mile into the lake. Numerous cabins and sheds dotted the banks, along with a metal machine shop with vehicles parked outside it. Sicarius eyed a crane and large lorries, some for carrying heavy loads of ice and others with winches and cutting equipment for removing the blocks in the first place. Currently, only a few feet of ice edged the lake, but, in another month, dozens of people would fill the camp and they’d be working around the clock. For now, only a couple of the cabins showed signs of occupation, early laborers sent out to ready the site.

Sicarius passed a snow-covered stack of beams, materials for a new building, and picked a lock on the machine shop. Inside, workbenches, a smithy, and welding tools took up a large chunk of the area. After a moment considering everything, he left, trotting back across the field to find the trail again. He hadn’t spotted any cement mixers or convenient already-dug pits that would let him reenact Amaranthe’s first soul-construct trap, but perhaps he could construct one of his own in that machine shop. He mulled over ideas as he followed the tracks, now angling to the southwest and away from the lake.

He was surprised at how far the creature had traveled to terrorize him and Sespian. Fort Urgot was five miles outside of the city, and he judged he’d gone another nine or ten, meaning the construct had made a thirty-mile roundtrip to hunt Sespian near the factory two days earlier. Of course, with those long and tireless legs, it could traverse a great distance in a short time. As more miles passed beneath him, and dawn drew closer, he started to doubt his thoughts of laying a trap at the ice-harvesting camp; only he or Sespian would work for bait—and Sespian was out of the question—but how would he lead the construct all the way back there without being caught himself? It could run far faster than he.

The smell of smoke reached Sicarius’s nose. Someone’s morning cook fire, or a sign that he neared a larger encampment? Numerous species of wood burned, and he caught a few whiffs of coal as well. Yes, the odors represented more than a single home’s hearth, and there were no towns out this way, only farmlands and some rolling hills to the southwest. Hills that might, he wagered, hide an army camp, at least from a distance. They were a couple of miles from the nearest major road, and the railway tracks were farther yet.

Sicarius veered away from the soul construct’s tracks, so he could circle around the area where his nose told him the camp lay without being seen—or smelled. Night was relinquishing its hold as dawn brightened the clouds in the eastern sky, and perimeter guards would pick out an approaching figure. He didn’t know if they knew a soul construct lived in their midst or if it was being kept hidden. If the latter, those enormous footprints would cause quite a stir.

As Sicarius skirted the foothills, he heard and smelled more signs of a large force camped within the draws and valleys—the scents of eggs and flatbread cooking mingled with the smoke smells, and here and there the tops of tents or trampers poked above the ridges.

He approached the camp from the far side with higher, rockier hills at his back. He had to scramble over and around the granite boulders and dells of the area, but he found a few trees that had escaped loggers’ axes by growing from inhospitable slopes, many quite sheer. He scrambled up a fir, using its needle-filled boughs for camouflage, until he had a view of the entire camp. The way the tents and vehicles meandered along the valley floors and walls made it hard to calculate numbers, but he guessed the force as large as Heroncrest’s. In addition, it must have at least one practitioner.

The Nurians had a distinct culture, often wearing attire Turgonians would find outrageously flamboyant—though perhaps Maldynado would not feel that way—and Sicarius thought a brightly colored tent might mark their spot, but only the green canvas of portable army dwellings dotted the valleys. He did spot an army-issue medium near the rear of the western edge of the camp. There was nothing notable about it except for the fact that all the soldiers coming out of their tents to attend their morning ablutions were avoiding the spot. Exactly what one would expect from Turgonians aware of a wizard in their midst. The tent had room for a few people to sleep in it—or a couple of people and a huge soul construct. It was also possible that the creature was sleeping in some cave in the hills. That seemed more likely than it strolling amongst a thousand tents filled with Turgonian soldiers. Sicarius would prefer to deal with the construct independently of its creator anyway. He hadn’t picked up the tracks again yet on this side of the camp, but he hadn’t circled the entire area yet.

He was about to drop down from his tree perch when the front flap of the tent he’d been watching stirred. A figure in cloth shoes and green and blue silks stepped out, a thick fur-trimmed jacket the man’s only concession to the cold. Silver hair fell halfway down his back, and his yellow-bronze skin was creased with age, though nothing about his erect posture and alert black eyes suggested senescence.

Sicarius thought to slip out his spyglass for a better look—he’d like to try for a glimpse inside the tent to see if more Nurians occupied the cots or if the soul construct might be there—but that silver-haired head turned in his direction.

He hadn’t moved or done anything that might have drawn someone’s gaze in his direction, and more than a hundred meters separated his tree from the Nurian’s tent. Further, branches and needles camouflaged his position. It didn’t matter. Through some percipience or another, the man sensed his presence and continued to stare in his direction.

An eerie howl echoed from some valley in the hills, the sound stirring the hairs on the back of Sicarius’s neck even though he ought to be familiar with it by now. Coming here before he’d laid a trap may have been unwise. He’d assumed the practitioner wouldn’t send the beast out during the day, but that may have been a fatal assumption. It was a long run back to the water tower outside of Fort Urgot.

The tent flap stirred again, and a second man stepped out, this one fit and young and wearing a scimitar at his waist, with a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. It might have been another wizard hunter brought along to act as an assassin, but Sicarius suspected it was a bodyguard. When the younger man asked a question, drawing the practitioner’s attention for a moment, Sicarius dropped from the branches. He was running before his feet alighted in the snow. He’d learned what he’d hoped to learn, but, with his presence being detected, he might not have time to do anything with his knowledge. He ran anyway.

Chapter 16

“H
ow much farther?” Amaranthe whispered as the sounds of footfalls faded. “You don’t look well.”

Retta crouched beside her in the alcove, with Books and Akstyr pressed in behind them. They’d used Akstyr’s guard jacket to fashion a bandage for her, but she must have torn something anew during the last scurry for cover, for fresh blood dampened her hand. Her face was Kendorian pale.

“Not far.” Retta leaned her head against the wall. “We’ve been ‘not far’ for an hour. We’re just having trouble finding an unblocked route to our destination.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Mia must have guessed where we’re going, and she’s directing troops to hunt in the area.”

“Their hunting is proving oddly effective,” Books said. “We keep seeing the same men. It’s as if they know right where we are.” The look he directed at Amaranthe held some extra meaning. Maybe he thought Retta was giving away their position somehow.

She shrugged back at him. Striking out on their own wasn’t an option. At this point, Amaranthe was completely lost. They were depending wholly on Retta to lead them to the control room. Or anywhere for that matter. If she passed out from blood loss, Amaranthe feared they could wander for days and not find their way out.

“They do know where we are,” Retta said bluntly. “There are ways to track humans in here.”

“Do we need to set up a diversion?” Books asked. “Draw the guards off so you two can get in?”

“Just what
we
are you volunteering for that?” Akstyr asked. “I’ve been shot at enough tonight.”

Not for the first time, Amaranthe wished she’d brought Sicarius along. He could handle the guards. Given time, he could probably hunt down everyone on the craft. Much more desirable than being hunted themselves. She hoped Sespian appreciated the use of her men.

“There’s one more route we can try,” Retta said. “This way.”

She wiped her moist hand and led them back into the maze. A few fresh droplets of blood splashed to the floor.

“Is there a first-aid kit in that control room?” Amaranthe asked. “Maybe we should stop somewhere to patch up your wound.”

“Yes,” Retta said.

Books and Akstyr shrugged when Amaranthe looked their way, wondering which of her questions Retta had been responding to. So long as she didn’t lead them back to the room with that crate and operating table. Pike might have left some of his salves in there, but Amaranthe shuddered at the idea of going in there to retrieve them.

Something floated out of an intersecting aisle ahead of them, a black cube. It rotated in their direction, a glowing red hole on the front, burning into one’s soul like a hot iron. Amaranthe flattened herself to the wall.

“Hairy donkey dung,” Akstyr whispered, and he and Books did the same.

“Not again,” Books said. “Run?”

The cube floated toward them.

“Just step aside,” Retta said.

“It’ll try to flambé us,” Akstyr blurted.

“No, I reworked their operating instructions early on.” Retta stepped out of its way, and the cube drifted past without pausing. “They don’t vaporize humans any more.”

“One we met in your underwater base did,” Amaranthe said.

“Those weren’t from the
Ortarh Ortak.
”

“Just how many stashes of advanced technology does Forge have?”

“Enough,” Retta said.

“How comforting.” Books still sucked in his gut and pressed every inch of his back to the wall as the cube passed.

It paused, and Amaranthe tensed. A fine red beam shot out of the orifice, angling toward the floor. Something flashed, and smoke wafted up, then the cube moved on.

“What’s it doing?” Akstyr asked.

“Cleaning up my blood.” Retta grimaced.

“We should have brought more weapons.” Amaranthe flicked a finger at the dagger on her belt, lamenting the pile of crossbows and rifles they’d left in front of the submarine—not that they’d do anything against that cube. “Real spies would have figured out how to sneak aboard with more than dinner knives.”

“I assumed you had the explosives in your purse.” Books waved at the satchel she had managed to retain throughout the night.

“I thought someone might search it. I only brought things a normal woman from the well-to-do business class might carry around.”

“Such as pens, ledgers, and abacuses?”

“Cosmetics, lotions, and breath mints,” Amaranthe said. “And adhesive for my fake nose.”

“Well-to-do businesswomen sound much like regular women,” Books said. “Regular women with prostheses anyway.”

“Maldynado may have thrown some… additional items in there too. I couldn’t figure out why it was so heavy this morning until I located a cedar candle inside.” She’d left it on the desk in her office, wondering if Sicarius would find the supposedly “stamina enhancing” scent amusing when they finally got to stand guard together. “Maldynado believes a woman should always be prepared in case she stumbles into some handsome stranger’s bed.”

“That dolt has a singular mind. A good-hearted one though.” Books sighed. “I suppose I should tell him that someday.”

“Yes, you should.”

“Does your team always talk this much in enemy territory?” Retta led them up a ramp.

“Only when it takes five hours to get from one side of that enemy territory to another,” Amaranthe said, then regretted the whining. She wasn’t the one with a bullet in her shoulder.

“That’s not true,” Akstyr said. “Maldynado talks all the time, no matter where we are.”

“We’re almost there.” Retta rounded a bend and stopped at a dead end.

Terse shouts sounded in the distance, orders being given.

“Wrong turn?” Books asked.

“No.” Retta lifted her uninjured arm and pressed her hand against the wall a foot above her head.

Runes similar to those at the other door flared into existence. Retta pressed three in a particular order. So smoothly Amaranthe didn’t realize it at first, the floor lifted. She turned, checking back the way they’d come, but a wall had formed out of nothing behind them. They were stuck—trapped—within a box.

Nothing inimical, Amaranthe told herself. It was just a steam lift. Without the steam.