Forged in Blood II (46 page)

Sicarius’s cool sidelong glance convinced her that the thought had been correct. He wasn’t in the mood to be playful. Understandable, since they’d left Sespian with a mess and were heading into another one.

“Look at that fire.” Akstyr thrust a finger toward a two-story brick building on a corner ahead. Flames leapt from the broken front windows, shards of glass gleaming orange on the cleared sidewalk below. The door had been busted in as well.

“That’s Curi’s,” Amaranthe blurted, reflexively stepping toward the exit, an image of leaping out and running for buckets of water flashing through her mind. But… Curi was allied with Forge, or had been. No matter how tasty her pastries were, maybe she deserved this end. Besides, with the way those flames were jumping, taming the chaos would take the Imperial Fire Brigade, not a couple of people with buckets.

“Looting,” Books said with disgust. “Hoodlums.”

As the lorry neared the intersection, two youths in oversized clothing slouched out of the shop, carrying bulging bags of stolen goods. One held a display platter full of sweets tucked under one arm. Again, Amaranthe was tempted to order Sicarius to stop, so they could jump out and deal with the thieves. Even if Curi deserved a bad turn for her alliance to Forge, criminals shouldn’t get away with pillaging and vandalism. The team couldn’t delay though, not when they were already hours behind those monsters.

Akstyr shrank away from the side of the cab. The pastries stuffed into the youths’ mouths didn’t hinder their ability to make crude gestures. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if they were aimed at the lorry in general or at Akstyr. The backs of those hands were branded, though she couldn’t tell with which marks.

Sicarius turned the corner, and the gang members disappeared from view. More buildings burned on either side of the wide street ahead, though there were fewer people out than she would have expected. Looting could grow widespread quickly. Where were the enforcers? Chasing makarovi?

The canal and a bridge came into view. Not much farther to the waterfront. Ah, there were the enforcers—a steam wagon rolled over the bridge at the same time as Sicarius crossed from the other side. Both vehicles scooted to the far sides, allowing room for the other to pass.

An enforcer leaned out of the back of the wagon with a megaphone. “Makarovi are loose in the city. Return to your homes. Do not take up arms. We will handle it.” It sounded like a litany he had repeated many times that night.

“How do they propose to handle it while they’re driving in the other direction?” Books asked.

“I’m sure there are numerous vehicles patrolling and looking for them. Or maybe enough are already at the factory to handle things.”

As they drove closer to the waterfront, they passed army vehicles as well with men on the roofs manning search lights, probing the alleys on either side of the streets.

“This way,” Amaranthe wanted to yell, “we know where they are.”

In truth, she didn’t know that. The makarovi might have already dealt with Suan and moved on to harassing the city at large.

Sicarius took them down the final long hill that led to Waterfront Street. More bodies littered the route, some on the sides, some out in the middle. More than once, he had to steer the lorry around one to avoid crushing it.

A block up from the waterfront, Sicarius turned onto the street that held the factory, but he had to brake immediately. A barricade had been erected from sidewalk to sidewalk, and two parked enforcer wagons further blocked access.

At first, Amaranthe thought that help must have arrived in time and maybe the law had been able to thwart the makarovi, but the silence of the street instilled a sense of eeriness. Wind gusted through, and clothing flapped somewhere. Amaranthe leaned out of the cab to see around the wagon—and wished she hadn’t. Two enforcers lay on their backs in slush turned red with their blood. One’s uniform jacket had been torn half off of him, and it flapped forlornly, as if it could fly away and escape the fate its owner had suffered.

Amaranthe listened for the roars of the makarovi, figuring that if they remained in the area it would imply they still sought their prey, but that flapping jacket was all she heard.

“We’ll try Waterfront Street,” Sicarius said. “If that’s blocked, we’ll proceed on foot.”

Amaranthe nodded. It was only three blocks to the factory—they would walk from here—but she remembered the effectiveness of that tunnel borer and was reluctant to leave the lorry behind. Even if it didn’t possess a giant drill bit, it might be able to pin beasts against the walls so the men could attack them.

Waterfront Street had been similarly blocked. If barricades alone had spanned the route, Amaranthe would have urged Sicarius to drive through them, but she doubted he’d be able to roll over the enforcer wagons once again parked inside the barrier.

“Should we try circling all the way around?” Amaranthe asked.

“We can come back for the lorry if we need it.” Sicarius parked the vehicle.

Something in his word choice made Amaranthe think they wouldn’t, that they were already too late.

Sicarius rose from the seat and grabbed the shovel in the rear. “I’ll stoke the firebox so it’s ready.”

Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr climbed out. There weren’t any boats out on the lake tonight. The ice that had been forming earlier in the week had receded, though it still edged the shoreline and cupped the pilings of docks. She listened again, hoping to hear the sounds of the makarovi, or at least of living beings, but it was as if the city’s entire population of one million had disappeared. Except for the looters. Fires continued to burn on the inland hills.

Amaranthe and the others did quick checks of their gear—weapons, yes, ammunition, yes, but would there be an opportunity to use them? She cringed at the idea of finding Starcrest and his family slaughtered in their blankets.

Sicarius hopped down from the cab, and the team squeezed past the barrier and strode up the street. He was carrying the blasting sticks under one arm.

When he noticed her eyeing them, he said, “You forgot your gift.”

“Ah, silly me. It’s kind of you to tote it along for me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Those sticks look… volatile. I suppose it’d be impolite of me to ask you to walk on the other side of the street while you carry my gift.”

“Yes.”

Books lifted a finger. “What if
I
make the request?”

The look Sicarius gave him lacked amusement.

As they strode through the next two blocks, they passed more enforcer bodies. Even at night, nobody had to stop for a close look to see how they’d died; the gouges left by the long makarovi claws were distinct.

They rounded a corner, and Sicarius pointed. At the intersection next to the factory, a massive furry heap lay in the street. Two more human bodies had fallen in the vicinity, but at least one makarovi had been killed. Amaranthe tried to guess how many remained. Six? Seven?

A shot rang out to the southeast—a block up and a block inland. That ought to be the factory.

“Someone’s still alive.” She surged forward, but Sicarius caught her by the elbow, his grip implacable.

She expected an order to stay behind, lest her scent drive all of the makarovi toward her, but he merely pointed to the rooftop of the nearest warehouse. “The shot was fired from an elevated position. We may find greater safety in a similar approach.”

That warehouse took up the whole block and, standing on opposing corners from the factory, would let them have a view of most of the area. “Let’s do it,” Amaranthe said.

Sicarius led the way, choosing a sturdy drainpipe. He shimmied up, using his boots and one hand to grip it, since he still held the blasting sticks in the other. Amaranthe couldn’t imagine a scenario where they’d lob explosives at the factory—especially if they believed people were still alive in there—but so long as he continued to carry her gift instead of asking the chore of her, she didn’t care. One-handed drainpipe climbing wasn’t in her repertoire of skills yet.

“Never have I wished more for his safety,” Books said, watching Sicarius climb, or perhaps watching the cylinder of sticks under his arm.

“Yes,” Amaranthe said. “I wouldn’t care to have him drop those, given our positions directly under him.”

She waited until Sicarius reached the roof, then hustled up after him. Books and Akstyr followed, though Akstyr whispered, “Blasted drainpipes. I looked this factory over when I was standing watch on the roof over there, and I distinctly remember a fire escape around the corner.”

“If makarovi can climb fire escapes, that’ll be the first thing I target with my gift.” Amaranthe reached the top and scrambled onto the roof. It was a flat one with low walls around the top. A small water tower perched in the center next to a couple of chimneys. A lone door allowed access to the interior.

Not surprisingly, Sicarius was checking the shadows for danger rather than rushing to the corner for a look at the factory. Amaranthe took that job for herself.

Almost sprinting, she bounded across the rooftop, reaching the corner in a few seconds. This building was taller than the factory, so she had to look down to spot the… what
was
that?

She’d stood a guard watch or two on that roof, too, so she knew what was and what wasn’t up there. Aside from the smokestacks there wasn’t a lot. Usually. Now some towering rectangular assembly of bars—or were those pipes?—had arisen. Lanterns dotted the rooftop, so she could see the stocky silver-haired man kneeling at one of the corners with a wrench. She didn’t know what he was doing, but seeing him filled her with relief.

“Admiral Starcrest is alive,” she called back to her team. Sicarius, Akstyr, and Books were all approaching. “And there’s…” The shadows were thicker away from the contraption, but she made out the figure kneeling at the edge of the roof with the rifle. “Deret.” A shot was fired from the far side of the factory roof, the flash of black powder briefly illuminating two more figures over there. Soldiers, she guessed from the fatigue uniforms. A few more knelt around the perimeter of the building, all with rifles and ammunition.

“His wife and daughter?” Books asked, coming up beside Amaranthe.

She swallowed. Where indeed were the women? The makarovi hadn’t caught them, had they?

Glass littered the street below. More than half of the windows had been destroyed, and the door visible from their warehouse lay uselessly across the threshold, torn from the hinges.

“There.” Books gripped Amaranthe’s shoulder with one hand, the other thrust toward the twin smokestacks.

Three women—Suan, Tikaya, and Mahliki—knelt between the chimneys, assembling something. Parts for Starcrest’s… project? It didn’t matter. They were alive. And well enough to scheme up—she’d have to ask and find out what that was. Some sort of makarovi trap, she guessed.

“Is that Amaranthe Lokdon over there?” came a call from the edge of the roof. “Or am I hearing voices?” Deret had lowered his rife and was squinting in her direction. “It must be her, because no other female would be reckless enough to come
toward
a makarovi hive.”

“You say you have an infestation of some sort?” Amaranthe called back. “Maybe we can help you come up with a suitable pesticide.” If the makarovi were roaming around inside the building, she envisioned lobbing burning blasting sticks through those broken windows. Then she envisioned one landing too close to a support post and the entire structure coming down. It was possible her idea needed refinement.

“That’s good,” Deret said, “because—”

A rifle cracked behind Starcrest’s project. There were two more soldiers in the center of the roof that Amaranthe hadn’t seen. One rushed to push a crate back atop the trapdoor that led to the interior.

“—the pests are particularly problematic this time of year,” Deret finished, his voice grim.

By now, Starcrest and the others had heard the exchange and noticed their company too. The admiral lifted a hand, but otherwise continued to work. Tikaya responded similarly. Suan wore a someone-get-me-off-this-roof-now-please expression. Did she have any idea that the makarovi were there for her?

Mahliki abandoned her project and raced to the edge of the roof. “My gas. Did it knock them out?”

Akstyr snickered. “Not all women can say things like that, but she’s pretty enough that I wouldn’t mock her for it.”

Amaranthe swatted him on the chest. “It did,” she called to Mahliki. “But we ran into trouble. The makarovi came from the Imperial Barracks.”

“What? How?” Deret called.

Starcrest lifted his head for more than a second this time.

“It seems Ravido Marblecrest wasn’t planning to be Forge’s spineless figurehead after all. He schemed this up with a shaman comrade. Those collars control them. They’re being sent to kill the remaining Forge founders. And I think they’ve accomplished their mission, save one.”

Suan lifted a hand to her lips. Yes, it’s you, Amaranthe thought.

“That explains their uncharacteristic tenacity,” Starcrest said.

“You might be able to shoot off their collars,” Amaranthe called. “We were able to break one that way last year.”

Deret cursed. “I didn’t even see any collars with those shaggy necks.”

“The fur makes them difficult to see, but they’re there. Of course, it’s not all that much better when they’re free of control.”

“Understood,” Starcrest said. “We’d have a hard time getting at them anyway, as they’re all downstairs right now, tearing up the inside of the building, but I’d rather they stay here in one place than wander into the city and kill people wantonly.”

“Trust me,” Amaranthe said, “they did plenty of that on their way down here.”

Starcrest and Deret both grimaced.

“They’re… dead because of me?” Suan asked. “I haven’t even… I mean…” She stared down at her hands.

Tikaya gripped her shoulder and said something Amaranthe couldn’t hear.

“What are you building, sir?” Books pointed to the pipe rectangle—it had to stand more than fifteen feet high.

“A very large mousetrap,” Starcrest said. “With bait, I thought we might lure the makarovi outside to one spot.” He waved toward the street below the roof. “And drop it over them. It’s very heavy—they shouldn’t be able to lift it without a combined effort, and I don’t believe they have that much intelligence.” He pointed to the smokestacks. “We’re making a winch, to lower it down.”