Forged in Blood II (49 page)

Sicarius meant to sprint the last few meters to fight back-to-back with them, but one of the men who’d been burned by the flames scrambled to his feet. He swung wildly at Sicarius. It might have been an attack or nothing more than pained flailing—he didn’t take the time to sort it out. He slammed his dagger into the top of the man’s skull. Leaving his blade there, he grabbed a pimple-faced youth who was trying to run around Books to get at Akstyr’s back. When the man saw him, he tried to pull away, but he stumbled on one of his fallen comrades. Sicarius didn’t bother drawing another knife. He yanked the thug toward him with one hand and slammed the palm of his other into his nose.

Books downed the second of the two people who’d evaded the flames and almost reached Akstyr. He gripped Akstyr’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Knowing that door was still open behind them, Sicarius didn’t relax. He spun, intending to run back and jam the bar back through the handle. Two more men stood at the top of the stairwell, both with crossbows raised.

A mistake, the analytical part of Sicarius’s mind acknowledged, you should have secured the door first. These thoughts came even as he lunged for one of the serrated blades in his boot—he’d spent all of the throwing knives in his arm sheath with the first attack. He never took his focus from the men, but they weren’t aiming at him; they didn’t even seem to see him. Their eyes, filled with some sort of zealous hatred, remained on Akstyr.

“Look out,” Sicarius warned in the same beat as he threw his knife. He reached for a second as soon as it spun from his fingers, but he knew he couldn’t hit both men before they fired.

The serrated blade wasn’t balanced for throwing, but it slashed across his target’s neck, slicing into the jugular before he loosed his shot. The second gang member, however, fired before Sicarius’s second knife left his fingers. Hoping the crossbow had missed, Sicarius glanced at his comrades.

Across the pile of fallen bodies from him, Books had lunged in front of Akstyr. Now he crumpled to the roof, his hand clutched to his chest.

“No!” Akstyr shouted.

Sicarius ran for the door. His knife had taken down the man who’d fired, but two more gang thugs were about to lunge out of the stairwell. They saw their death approaching in Sicarius’s eyes and stumbled backward. Sicarius yanked the door shut, grabbed the pipe he’d used earlier, and jammed it back through the handle.

“Akstyr?” came Amaranthe’s voice, an uncharacteristic quaver to it. “Is he…?”

After another check to make sure no climbers had gained the roof, Sicarius ran toward the group, though he slowed before he reached them. Books lay on his side, facing the door. He wasn’t moving.

Akstyr dropped down beside him, forgetting his own wound—blood saturated the side of his baggy brown shirt. Amaranthe rushed over, falling to her knees.

“Why’d he do that?” Akstyr whispered. “Why’d he step in front…?”

Amaranthe shook his shoulder. “Help him. You can heal him.”

Books’s eyes were locked open. It wasn’t his chest that he was clutching but a crossbow bolt sticking out of it. It was as if he’d meant to pull it out, but he hadn’t been able to. It wouldn’t have mattered. It’d struck his heart. He was already dead.

“I can’t,” Akstyr whispered. “It’s too late. He’s—”

“No, curse your ancestors.” Amaranthe grabbed both of Akstyr’s shoulders and shook him. “You healed me when I was dying. You can do it. All those books, you—” Her voice cracked, and she shook him again.

Akstyr threw a desperate look at Sicarius.

That stirred him to action. He stepped around Books’s body and grasped Amaranthe’s arms, trying to pull her away from Akstyr gently, but she wouldn’t relinquish her grip.

Sicarius made his own grip firmer. “We’ll
all
be dead if we don’t concentrate on the rest of the fight.”

Komitopis and Mahliki glanced in his and Amaranthe’s direction. They’d taken over her position and were helping Deret and another soldier onto the roof.

Sicarius released Amaranthe, trusting she’d gather herself, but he might need to take charge for a moment, at least until Starcrest joined them. He grabbed a couple of blasting sticks. With Books down, any inhibitions he might have had against blowing up gang brats was gone—such inhibitions would have been out of respect for Amaranthe’s wishes, not because he thought any of those thugs worth saving.

The remaining soldiers were climbing across the rope while Starcrest, standing beside Suan, waited for the last slot. Nobody was left guarding their trapdoor, a trapdoor the makarovi must still be banging at.

“Come,” Sicarius shouted.

Starcrest glanced at his giant unused trap, then squinted behind Sicarius. “What is your rope tied to?”

“Smoke vent.”

Starcrest shook his head once and held up two fingers. He must have made a mental calculation and was certain that was all the rope could hold safely. Sicarius didn’t know if they had time for safety though. People were spilling into the intersection below, and more thugs with ropes and grapples were running toward the warehouse walls. Others funneled into the first-floor doors.

As the last two soldiers climbed off, Sicarius waved again for Starcrest to go. He lit a blasting stick and threw it to the north of the intersection where a wave of reinforcements was coming in. He didn’t bother aiming where nobody was standing, as Amaranthe had done; he targeted a thick knot of people.

“Look out!” someone cried. They were pressed in too tightly for anyone to run.

Sicarius never would have thought the gangs would work this hard and risk this much for his head, million ranmyas or not. Though the chants that floated up continued to be, “Get the wizard, kill the wizard!” Through his own actions, Akstyr had riled them up into a furor.

Watching the wary slowness with which Suan climbed onto the rope was enough to make one start tearing hair out. Sicarius didn’t care if she plummeted, but Starcrest obviously did. He knelt, whispering what could only be encouragements. Since he’d taken the last position, he couldn’t cross until she did.

A crack sounded on the far rooftop, and bars clattered. The crate and whatever else the soldiers had shifted onto the trapdoor tipped off.

Makarovi paws appeared, grasping either side of the opening.

“Starcrest, go!” Sicarius barked.

Starcrest scarcely needed the order. He’d swung onto the rope as soon as the crack sounded behind him. Suan inched along ahead of him.

Too slow. If the makarovi was willing to throw itself from the roof to get to them…

Sicarius clenched his fist around a blasting stick. The first creature pulled itself the rest of the way through the trapdoor. A second head appeared behind it.

Sicarius dipped the fuse into the lantern flame. He backed a few steps, lining up a throw. Starcrest’s eyes widened. Yes, if Sicarius took out the part of the trap their rope was tied to, it’d be trouble for them. But being knocked from the rope by a makarovi would be trouble too.

“What are you doing?” Komitopis blurted.

Sicarius had to risk it. Better for them to fall a couple of stories than to be shredded to death in midair. He dodged Komitopis’s grasp, ran forward, and hurled the burning stick. It flew, toppling end over end through the air. He swore it moved even more slowly than the woman on the rope. The makarovi were lumbering creatures, but at that moment the lead one’s gait seemed to have the speed of an avalanche. It couldn’t have been more than ten feet from the edge, from leaping after Starcrest and its target, when the blasting stick bounced to the roof at its feet. The fuse was still burning down, and Sicarius believed it’d explode too late. He was about to lunge for a rifle, out of some vain notion of shooting the makarovi in the eye as it leaped from the roof, but the stick blew, right between the beast’s legs. He’d been expecting that all night—for one of the sticks to explode on impact—but it surprised him nonetheless.

Smoke swallowed the makarovi, and an undulation ran along the rope stretched between the buildings. Suan squealed. Her legs had been crossed over it, but they slipped free. Starcrest hastened toward her, dropping a hand to steady her. The makarovi was no more, but shrapnel rained down all around Starcrest and Suan—broken metal pipes flying free from the trap Starcrest had been making. The trap had lost the top and part of one side, but the section holding the rope remained stable. Sicarius let out a soft exhalation of relief.

“They’re everywhere,” came a cry from one of the soldiers defending the warehouse roof. “Why are they so slagging eager to get up here?”

“Wizard, wizard,” continued the chant from the street.

“And where are the slagging enforcers?” another of Starcrest’s men yelled.

At the Imperial Barracks, Sicarius thought, and grabbed another blasting stick, this one for the mob. The first had kept people away from the intersection, but they were encroaching again.

“Get those people up there,” someone in the street shouted. “They’re going to help the wizard. And the assassin!”

Sicarius thrust the fuse into the flame.
Nobody
was getting “those people.”

Mahliki rushed to the edge, gripping the low wall. “Hurry up, Father!”

Starcrest had righted Suan, and her ankles were locked over the rope again. They’d reached the halfway point. He gave a smile that was probably meant to be encouraging, but bleakness edged it.

“Stay back,” Sicarius told Mahliki and lobbed the blasting stick.

A second before it landed, a musket boomed from the street corner. Starcrest’s body jerked, his hands flying from the rope.

No. Sicarius grabbed a rifle, not even sure who had shot, but wanting to put a bullet in his eye.

“Rias!” Komitopis screamed.

Suan screamed as well and finally got her hands moving faster. Sicarius was tempted to shoot
her
.

Rias hadn’t dropped entirely—he hung from the rope by his ankles. One arm dangled below him, and the other was tucked to his chest. Shoulder shot? Sicarius couldn’t tell.

As Rias swayed, his face grew visible for a moment, along with the rictus of pain that contorted his mouth. Definitely shot. He flexed his abdomen and curled up, his good arm reaching for the rope. He almost had it when the blasting stick Sicarius had thrown chose that moment to explode.

Shouts of fear and shrieks of pain erupted from the street. The blast was close enough to set the rope to swaying and buffet Suan and Starcrest again. Starcrest’s grasping fingers missed the rope, and he dropped again. One of his boots slipped, but he made a quick adjustment and caught himself.

Komitopis cursed a stream of Kyattese, the words spewing forth so quickly Sicarius could only make out one in three. They weren’t flattering. She slammed a palm into his shoulder, the blow harder than he would have expected from her, and shouted, “Stop throwing those things. Let them cross!”

Sicarius didn’t point out that he’d thrown it before Starcrest had been in trouble. Suan had made it to the roof. When Sicarius didn’t move to help her, others did. Deret and Amaranthe. She gave him a look he couldn’t read.

Out on the line, Starcrest swung himself up again. This time he caught the rope. His head dropped and he stared at his destination upside down. He couldn’t get his other arm up to help himself along. Would he be able to complete the crawl with one hand? He twisted his neck, eyeing the street below.

Sicarius read the look. Starcrest was considering how much trouble he’d be in if he dropped.

Sicarius handed his rifle to someone, ordering, “Cover us,” to no one in particular. He slipped out onto the rope and skimmed along it until he reached Starcrest.

“I hope you brought the painkillers,” Starcrest said.

“Grab me, sir.”

“You can’t carry me.”

“I will,” Sicarius said.

“Look out,” someone below cried.

“Nah, it’s more stupid magic.”

With Suan no longer on their rooftop, the makarovi, the
real
makarovi, were running out of the factory.

This was taking too long. Their chance to collapse the building on the monsters was gone, if they’d ever had a chance to start with. This whole night—what chaos and stupidity. Sicarius vowed that if he lived, Ravido Marblecrest wouldn’t.

Sicarius grabbed Starcrest, wrestling with limbs and gravity to find a position they could use. Starcrest refused to climb onto Sicarius’s back and put all of his weight on him, and ended up grabbing Sicarius’s belt with his good hand. Starcrest left his ankles wrapped around the rope, and they managed an awkward upside down crab walk toward the warehouse.

The first scream of pain came from below as the mob learned that
these
makarovi were not illusions. Sicarius wondered if the gangs would stay and fight. With those numbers, they might wear down the remaining beasts by attrition, but there was no money promised for slaying
them
.

“That’s the assassin,” someone shouted. “Get him—a million ranmyas.”

“You shouldn’t have come out here,” Rias said.

Sicarius picked up his speed—another ten meters and they’d reach the building.

A shot fired, not from below but from the roof. Amaranthe stood on the low wall, smoke wafting from her rifle. She’d taken the idiot yelling about assassins in the center of his chest.

The makarovi tore into the mob, distracting anyone else from the men on the rope. Sicarius reached the roof and shifted about so Mancrest and Akstyr could grab Starcrest first. After the admiral was safe, Sicarius pulled himself over and collapsed on the roof. For a weary moment, he considered not getting up. What was the point? Let the makarovi destroy those people down there. And vice versa.

He looked at the spot where he’d left Books. He hadn’t been moved, and seeing his body there, alone on the roof, filled Sicarius with remorse he hadn’t expected. There had to be a point, he thought. Or what had his death been for? He looked to Amaranthe, for some reason thinking she might have an answer for him, one that made sense.

She stood, her face more grim and determined than ever, holding a blasting stick in each hand. The last two, Sicarius realized.