Forged in Blood II

Chapter 1

Amaranthe wasn’t dead. At least, she didn’t think so. Dead people probably didn’t hurt all over. The flying lifeboat had insulated them from the crash somehow, though her head had connected with a couple more walls before the craft stopped bouncing.

“Books?” she asked into the darkness. “Akstyr? I hope one of you is alive, because I have no idea how to open that door and get out of this thing.”

A deep, pained sigh came from underneath her-she’d tumbled back on top of the men again during the landing. Amaranthe crawled to the side, though there wasn’t much open space in the cramped cabin.

“One of you?” Books repeated. “You have no preference as to whom your survivor is, nor a belief that one of us would be more equal to the task of opening a door secured by ancient unfathomable technology, or of deciphering instructions written in an inscrutable alien tongue?”

He must not be wounded horribly if he could utter all that.

“You saw instructions?” Amaranthe asked.

“Well, no, but it was hard to get a good look in the dark. And while we were being shot at.”

“We still have the darkness problem,” Amaranthe pointed out. The viewport that had appeared while they were in flight had disappeared before the crash, leaving the inside of their lifeboat utterly black. “Akstyr?” Amaranthe patted about, finding his back, then following it up to his neck so she could check his pulse. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d hurled himself into the craft, dodging the incendiary beams of those indestructible cubes.

He mumbled something at her touch on his neck.

“What?” Amaranthe breathed a sigh of relief. They might be a thousand miles from the capital, but at least they were all alive.

“Wanna rest,” he slurred. He lay facedown, his mouth pressed into the floor. “But some muddy’s knee is up my buss.”

“I think he’s referring to your body part,” Amaranthe told Books mildly, fairly certain she wasn’t sitting on anyone anymore. Though she couldn’t be sure what a “buss” was.

“Ah.” Books shifted. “I’d wondered why that section of the floor was so bony.”

“Ma buss not bony,” Akstyr slurred.

Maybe more than his positioning accounted for the mangled words. Amaranthe prodded his scalp and found a lump. He must have hit his head, among other things. He’d also been wearier than a long-distance runner after a race when he’d stumbled into the lifeboat. Out of curiosity, Amaranthe investigated her own scalp. She snorted when she found three lumps. Maybe her words were coming out slurred too.

Books groaned as he stood up. “I’ll see if I can find the-”

The door slid up, the material disappearing into the hull. Starlight, freezing air, and the scent of snow-covered pine trees entered. The cold air slithered through Amaranthe’s leggings, and she tugged her dress down as far as it would go. A chunk of blonde hair tumbled into her eyes. She shoved it behind her ear and wished for a beaver fur hat. She had a feeling her Suan costume wasn’t going to be suitable for this next adventure. Not to mention that ridiculous underwear she’d let Maldynado pick out. One slip down an icy slope, and she’d have snow all the way up her-

She sighed. At least the fur boots were practical.

“Good work, Books.” Amaranthe patted around, finding two of their rifles. The cartridge ammunition littered the floor, and she scooped up as much as she could. Who knew what they’d face out there? The craft could have plopped them down into grimbal or makarovi territory.

“Uhm, yes. Except I didn’t do anything. Perhaps it sensed that we’ve landed and is ready to spew us forth into the world of its own accord.”

“That’s fine,” Amaranthe said. “I’m ready to be spewed.”

“Think I was already spewed,” Akstyr muttered and curled his legs up to his chest. “It’s cold. I wanna stay here and sleep. Be warm.”

“If the door closes again,” Books said, “you may be stuck inside forever, because I don’t know how to open it.”

Akstyr lurched to his feet and stumbled out into the snow. “Never mind. I’m ready.”

He barely made it through the threshold before slumping against the hull.

“Why don’t you stay here,” Amaranthe suggested, “and try to make a fire? Books and I will figure out where we are.”

When she stepped outside, shivering at the wind scouring the mountainside, her optimism floundered. A few pines, the bases half buried by drifts, dotted the slope below them. They’d landed above the tree line and, she feared, far from any towns. Not good. They weren’t prepared for winter wilderness survival conditions.

Books stepped out beside her and surveyed their dark surroundings. “Hm.”

“Does that mean you don’t know where we are either?” Amaranthe wished she had an idea of how far they’d flown and in which direction. Were they fifty miles from the capital? Or five hundred? Though she’d been out of Stumps more times in the last year than in her entire life prior to meeting Sicarius and the others, she didn’t exactly qualify as a world explorer yet.

“That may be a pass over there,” Books mused. “And those four peaks in a row remind me of the Scarlet Sisters, though there are arrangements like that in other mountain ranges, too, I’m certain. We don’t seem to have left the climate zone, albeit we’re at a higher and, ah, chillier altitude. The stars are familiar.”

“That was a yes, right? You don’t know where we are?”

Books grumped something that might have been agreement.

“I hear a train,” Akstyr said from where he still leaned against the lifeboat hull, his eyes closed, his arms wrapped tightly about himself and the rumpled guard uniform he’d acquired on the way down to the Behemoth.

Amaranthe perked up. He was right. She caught the distant chuffing of an engine working hard to pull its load up an incline.

“Oh!” Books said. “Those are the Scarlet Sisters then. That’ll be the East-West Line, and that train is either traveling to or from Stumps.”

Given the chaos the Behemoth’s appearance must have caused-Amaranthe had no idea if it’d sunken back down into the lake or taken off for some distant destination, but people would have witnessed it either way-she thought traveling from was the more likely scenario. Or fleeing from perhaps. Still… “Let’s see if we can get to the rails before it’s gone. If it’s going to the city-”

“It could be our ride home,” Books finished.

“Does this mean no fire?” Akstyr asked.

“Sorry.” Amaranthe grabbed his arm. They’d have to hurry to have any chance of scrambling down the mountain in time.

“You can sleep on the way back to the city,” Books said. “We’re over one hundred and fifty miles from Stumps.”

Amaranthe’s mind boggled at the idea that they’d traveled that far in a couple of minutes, but she was more concerned about getting back now. She handed Books the other rifle and led the way down the mountainside, plowing through snow that enveloped her legs up to her knees with every step. It didn’t take long for sweat to break out on her brow and weariness to slow her limbs. Her newly acquired bruises and lumps further protested this unasked-for workout, and she wasn’t altogether upset when Akstyr announced he was too tired to go on. They stopped to rest, huddling beneath the boughs of a tree for protection from the wind. The chugs of the train faded from hearing.

“I believe that one was heading away from the capital,” Books said.

Amaranthe doubted he could tell-with the mountain walls, canyons, and crevasses distorting sound, she couldn’t-but she could understand the desire for optimism. Especially when her toes were freezing in her boots. Once again, she was glad she’d ignored Maldynado’s suggestion to wear sandals to the yacht club.

“Anyone have any food?” Akstyr asked when they started out again.

“Not unless Amaranthe’s purse contains more than glue for her fake nose,” Books said.

“Actually, I have some of Sicarius’s dried meat-and-fat bars in here,” Amaranthe said.

“I’d rather eat the nose glue,” Akstyr said.

“You may change your mind after another day out here.”

Akstyr’s grumbled response was too low to make out.

They continued their trudge, cold and miserable and unequipped for the terrain, though traveling downhill took some of the anguish out of the trek. As dawn broke over the mountains, the clear sky untouched by smog and impressive in its gradated pinks and oranges, they reached the pass. The cleared tracks, snow piled high to either side, wound through the treacherous terrain, a black snake navigating boulders and slopes.

Amaranthe angled toward a bridge, the support structure towering well over the tracks. It’d be an opportune place-or rather the only place-to jump onto a moving train, and the team had practiced such maneuvers before.

That didn’t keep Books from groaning as they approached. “Why am I certain of what’s in your mind and certain it’ll be dangerous?”

“Really, Books, we’ve been chased by man-incinerating machines, flung from an aircraft so alien our science can’t begin to fathom it, and hurtled hundreds of miles to crash on a mountainside. You’re going to complain about something as benign as hopping onto a train?”

“She’s got a point, you know,” Akstyr said. “It’s freezing out here. I’d do just about anything to get off this mountain.”

Books’s harrumphed.

Amaranthe nudged Akstyr. “He’s just complaining out of habit now. It’s what men do when they get old.”

“I am not old,” Books said. “I probably wouldn’t even have any gray hair yet if I weren’t traipsing around after you all the time. This last year has been enough to age a man ten.”

“That’s a lie. You had gray temples when I met you.”

“Fine, these last two years have been enough to age a man ten.”

They’d reached the base of the bridge, frothy white water frozen into ridges of ice far below, and Amaranthe stopped teasing Books. She didn’t wish to remind him of the death of his son and the difficult times he’d faced before joining her team. Granted, he was right that the last year hadn’t been without difficulties either. But it’d all end soon. One way or another.

This time, Amaranthe heard the train first, the distant chugs coming from the west. “It’s heading to the capital. This is our opportunity.” She waved for them to climb halfway up one of the towers rising from the suspension bridge. “It’s still dark enough that, if we’re lucky, the engineer won’t notice us crouching up there.”

“We’re due some luck,” Books said.

“Let’s be happy there are trains coming through and that we didn’t have to wait for days out here.” The East-West Line was a busy one, taking passengers and freight from Stumps to the various ports on the west coast and back, but Amaranthe hadn’t known what to expect with the capital locked down. She did know the train would be stopped and searched before being allowed into the city. Best to worry about getting on first. “Akstyr, can you make the climb?” she asked.

Books was shimmying up the steel supports, but Akstyr stood at the base, staring upward, his eyes sunken and his body slumped.

“Yes,” he sighed and started climbing. “But promise me I can curl up in a corner and sleep the rest of the way back to the city.”

“It’d probably be best to stay on the roof,” Books called down, “so they don’t know we’ve sneaked aboard. You can sleep up there.”

“Sounds cold.”

Amaranthe secured her rifle across her back and climbed up after them without commenting, though she agreed the roof might be best. That way, they could jump off the train as it was pulling into the checkpoint, before any soldiers climbed aboard to search.

By the time she joined the men on a ledge halfway up the tower, the train was lumbering into view, its pace slow as it wound its way up the mountainside and into the pass.

“Dead ancestors with caltrops,” Amaranthe said when she spotted black-painted cars with golden imperial army logos on the sides. Those cars, dozens of them, would be filled with soldiers. More troops to support Flintcrest? Or Heroncrest? Or even Ravido? Whoever’s men they were, they wouldn’t be coming to join Sespian.

“Definitely best to stay on the roof,” Books said, “or avoid getting on altogether. How do you feel about waiting for the next train?”

Akstyr groaned, doubtlessly displeased at the idea of climbing back down, then having to climb back up again later. And then there was the cold and the limited food supply. Amaranthe flexed her numbed fingers within mittens made to ward off the chill during a quick outing into the city, not to protect digits from sub-zero mountain temperatures. Thanks to the wind, she already couldn’t feel her nose, and white crystals had frozen her lashes together. Now that they’d stopped moving, the chill was more noticeable. The sun might bring a reprieve, but another storm could come in that day too.

“We have no idea how long we’d be waiting,” she said, “and the next train might be more of the same. Someone ought to block the pass so all these reinforcements can’t continue to trickle in.”

“No,” Books said, sounding like Sicarius for a moment, he being the only one of the men who blatantly naysayed her.

Amaranthe had simply been musing aloud, so she wasn’t affronted by his vehemence. Their priority should be getting back to the city, not attacking supply lines, and she knew it. Yet… she had a hard time dropping the idea now that it’d formed.

“We don’t have any explosives,” Akstyr said. “And I’m too tired to make a landslide.”

“We wouldn’t necessarily need anything so permanent. What if we jumped on behind the locomotive, and decoupled the rest of the cars, the same as the last time we hopped a train? The soldiers would be stranded, and the railway into the city would be blocked until someone got another locomotive out to move the cars.”

Books was staring at her. “Can’t you ever take the easy route? Why can’t we catch a ride into the city and leave it at that?”

“You disagree that it’d be wise to deny reinforcements to the generals competing with Sespian for the throne?”

“No, but why do we always have to do these things?” Books sounded tired and frazzled. They’d all been up for too long without sleep.

“Who else will?” Amaranthe asked.

He growled. “Maybe we should stand back, let them all fight each other until they’re tired of it, then come in and offer a less bloodthirsty system of government to the survivors.”

“You think it would be that easy?”

Books sighed and leaned his head against the steel beam. “No.”

“It’s going to be here in a second.” Akstyr pointed at the oncoming train, the black locomotive leading the way, its grill guard like a wolf’s snarling face, full of sharp fangs.

Amaranthe shifted her weight on the ledge, readying herself to jump. “Coal car,” she instructed.

Books didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t resume the argument.

The pass was flat compared to the terrain the train had finished climbing, and it picked up speed as it bore down on the bridge. They’d have to time their jump carefully. None of them were fresh.

Judging the approach in her head, listening to the clicketyclack of the wheels rolling over rail segments, Amaranthe said, “Now!” and dropped from the tower. Wind roared in her ears, then faded as her feet hit the coal.

Elbows jostled her as she turned the landing into a roll, Akstyr and Books doing the same. They couldn’t have dropped in any closer to each other if they’d held hands. She banged someone with her rifle, and the coal scraped her fake nose off, but that was the worst of their injuries. As one, they rose into low crouches, careful to keep their heads down. If someone in the first troop car had seen them drop, or noticed them now… She was all too aware that Sicarius, Maldynado, and Basilard weren’t with her this time. As much as her ego wanted to reject the notion, she, Books, and Akstyr were the weakest fighters on the team. When she’d been separating everyone into neat parties, she hadn’t planned on combat for her half. Naive, that. She hoped Sespian was finding her men useful in Fort Urgot.

Books pointed to the locomotive and signed, Do we take it first? Or try to decouple the rest of the train?

The last time the team had decoupled cars on a moving train, Sicarius had been the one to do it. Even though she’d suggested it, the idea of attempting the maneuver herself daunted Amaranthe. She didn’t know how much physical strength it would take. At least nobody was shooting at them this time. Yet.

She eyed the route ahead. The locomotive had sped off the bridge and was on a downhill slope, picking up speed as it went. More snowy peaks loomed ahead, so there’d be more uphill swings.

Let’s wait to do that, Amaranthe signed and waved at the rest of the cars, until we slow for another climb. It’ll be less dangerous then. Besides, the engineer and fireman will be alert and ready for trouble if we try to take over after the majority of their train wanders off of its own accord.

Agreed, Books signed.

We’ll take care of those men first. She pointed at the locomotive.

Books grimaced, but didn’t argue. Akstyr yawned. Such heartening support.

On a military train, the men in the locomotive would be trained fighters, a soldier and an officer shoveling coal and working the controls. Knowing the transport was heading into trouble, its commander might have placed guards up front as well.

I’ll go left, Amaranthe signed, and you go right, Books. With luck, there’ll only be two of them, and we can stick our rifles in their backs and convince them to tie themselves up.

Akstyr, Books signed, you can usually tell how many people there are in a room. Is it just two?

Akstyr closed his eyes, winced, and shook his head. “I can’t right now, sorry.” He didn’t bother with hand signs, and Amaranthe struggled to hear him over the wind and the grinding of wheels on rails. “When I try to summon mental energy, my head hurts like there’s a knife stabbing into the backs of my eyeballs.”

Old-fashioned way then, she signed. Akstyr, you come in after me and help out if there’s more than two people, or there’s trouble.

Akstyr tossed a lump of coal. “When is there not trouble?”

The odds suggest something will go easily for us eventually. Amaranthe winked. It was more bravado than belief, but she tried to use the thought to bolster herself. Rifle in hand, she clambered down the side of the coal car, the wind tearing at the hem of her dress-ridiculous outfit to hijack a train in-and pulled her way along the ledge toward the locomotive.

On the other side, Books was doing the same. Amaranthe trusted they’d make the same progress, but paused to peer in the window next to the cab door before jumping inside. The two men in black military fatigues with engineering patches were as she’d expected, a sergeant leaning on a shovel by the furnace and a lieutenant standing behind the seat overlooking the long cylindrical boiler and the tracks beyond. What she didn’t expect were the two kids in civilian clothing. A boy and a girl, both appearing to be about fifteen years old, shared the cab with the two men. From the rear side window, Amaranthe couldn’t see much of their faces, but the girl had a pair of brown pigtails and sat in the engineer’s seat, pointing at various gauges and speaking, asking questions perhaps. The boy stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the sergeant, a book of schematics open in his hands as the fireman pointed things out inside an open panel.

“What is this?” Amaranthe muttered. “A private tutoring lesson?” She’d be less mystified if this were a civilian transport; she could imagine some warrior-caste lord on a family vacation arranging for special access for his privileged offspring, but what could children be doing on a military train? Was one of the invading generals, having realized he’d be in the capital for some time, having his family brought in? She couldn’t fathom it. Even if there wasn’t much outright fighting in the streets-or hadn’t been when she left-who would bring kids into a volatile situation?

At the other window, on the opposite side of the cabin, Books’s nose and eyes were visible, he too wearing a perplexed expression.

Amaranthe tilted her head, indicating they should go ahead with their plan. They still needed control of the locomotive. The sergeant and officer wore their standard-issue utility knives, and there were flintlock rifles mounted within reach above the cab doors, but the men were otherwise unarmed. Neither of the youths had weapons, as far as Amaranthe could tell, though in examining them, she took a closer look at their clothing and grew even more confused. Beneath parkas suitable for the cold weather, they wore homespun garments of light colors and materials, the styles foreign, though Amaranthe wasn’t worldly enough to put a finger on their origin. She only knew the children weren’t wearing the typical factory-made clothing or styles currently common around the capital.

Books was moving, so she ended her musings. A second before Amaranthe opened the cab door, the boy glanced in her direction. She hadn’t thought she’d made a noise, but she must have. Books opened his own door and jumped inside, rifle at the ready. Amaranthe entered as well, raising her firearm to her shoulder, aiming at the lieutenant’s head. The weapon wasn’t ideal in the tight space, but she had enough room. When the officer spun around, his eyes crossed as he found himself staring at the muzzle.

The sergeant’s hand twitched toward his knife, but Books prodded his arm with his own rifle, and the man scowled and desisted. The youths-siblings, Amaranthe decided, as soon as she saw their faces and the gray-blue eyes they shared-spread their arms to their sides, calmly opening their hands to show they held no weapons. That calm was surprising in people too young to have had military training, and she made a note to watch them, though the soldiers were more of an immediate threat.

“Who are you people?” the lieutenant asked, glancing out the door, as if to assure himself that yes indeed the train was still moving. Rapidly. He also shifted his stance so that he stood in front of the girl. The sergeant shifted so he stood in front of the boy, though his glances were toward the rifles above the door.

“My apologies for hopping onto your train without a boarding pass. We found ourselves lost in the mountains and need a ride to Stumps.” Amaranthe eased forward a couple of inches so Akstyr could squeeze in behind her. “Get their weapons,” she told him without taking her eyes from the soldiers.

“Hijacking an imperial train is punishable by death,” the lieutenant said, glowering as Akstyr removed his knife and patted him down for hidden items.

“Is it?” Amaranthe asked. “Then I probably shouldn’t tell you it’s not our first. Search the children for weapons, too, Akstyr.”

“Children?” the girl whispered to her brother. She had a grown woman’s curves, even if the pigtails made her look young, and Amaranthe probably could have used a different word. Indeed, the speculative consideration Akstyr gave her as he searched her suggested she was plenty old enough by his teenaged reckoning. Amaranthe was thankful his pat down was professional.

“She’s talking about you, naturally,” the brother responded.

They were speaking in Turgonian, but with a faint accent. Again, Amaranthe couldn’t place it. She wondered if Books had a better idea.

“Oh, yes,” the sister said, “I’m certain the three minutes longer you’ve had in the world than I grants you scads of wisdom and maturity.”

“Mother does say I was born with a book in my hands. I imagine that gave me a head start.”

The lieutenant exchanged glances with the sergeant, and the two men lunged, one toward Amaranthe, and one toward the door behind her. She reacted instantly, ramming the muzzle of the rifle into the officer’s sternum, the blow accurate enough to halt his charge. She tried to whip the weapon around to crack him in the head with the butt, but it caught on the doorjamb, and she settled for stomping on his instep. In the same movement, she brought her knee up to catch the soldier angling for the exit. By that point, he was stumbling for the exit, since Books had slammed the butt of his own weapon into the sergeant’s back. Amaranthe lowered her rifle, tapping the side of the lieutenant’s head with the muzzle. He’d bent over under her attack, and didn’t straighten, not with the cool kiss of metal against his temple.

“Next time, we’ll shoot.” Amaranthe hoped they wouldn’t know she was lying.

Akstyr had a knife out and was keeping an eye on the siblings, who were exchanging looks of their own. Amaranthe thought she read an oh-well-we-tried quality in their expressions. They’d been hoping to divert their attackers’ attention with their arguing? Hm.

“Slag off,” the sergeant snarled. Sort of. His cheek was smashed into the textured metal floor, and the endearment lacked clarity.

“Akstyr, tie everyone up, please. The sooner we get to phase two of our plan, the better.” Amaranthe peeked out the door toward the coal car and the rest of the train. As long as everything was attached, anyone could amble up front and cause trouble. For all she knew, shift change was three minutes away.

The girl murmured a question to her brother, not in Turgonian this time. He nodded back.

Amaranthe met Books’s eyes, sure he’d have an answer as to the language.

Kyattese, he signed.

Kyattese? Emperor’s warts, now what? It was bad enough the Nurians were tangled up in this vying for the throne-did the Kyattese want some part of it too?

Amaranthe signed, Any idea who they might be?

She was aware of the siblings watching her, noticing the finger twitches, though she was positive they wouldn’t understand Basilard’s hand code. Even his own Mangdorian people were hard pressed to follow it, given how much he’d added to the lexicon over the last year.

“I’m out of rope and belts.” Akstyr had tied the lieutenant, but not the sergeant yet. He gave Amaranthe an aggravated look.

“Get creative,” she told him.

“My head hurts too much for creativity. I-” Akstyr stood abruptly. “Sci-” He switched to code: Science.

What? Amaranthe stepped toward the siblings. She knew it wasn’t the soldiers, so that only left-was that one of those I’m-about-to-fling-magic looks of concentration on the boy’s face? Though she was reluctant to aim her rifle at a youth, Amaranthe prodded him in the chest with the barrel, hoping to distract him.

Something popped on the furnace, and black smoke poured into the cabin. Amaranthe cursed, left with little choice but to club the kid. As she drew back the rifle to swing, the girl reached into her coat, toward a pocket or perhaps a belt pouch.

“Books,” Amaranthe barked.

“I can’t-ergh.”

Someone grabbed Amaranthe from behind, yanking her away from the siblings and propelling her into the rear of the cab with jaw-cracking force. Though she threw an elbow back, trying to catch her attacker in the ribs, the person evaded the blow. Her rifle was torn from her fingers. She didn’t know if it was the same someone or someone else. Men in black uniforms moved in her peripheral vision, and soon the cabin was so crowded with bodies, she couldn’t have unpinned herself even if someone didn’t have a forearm rammed against her spine. Now it was her face that was smashed against something, her eyes meeting Books’s-he was in a mirror position two feet from her. It was neither the familiar sergeant nor the lieutenant who had him pinned, a cutlass prodding his back, but a grim-faced captain. Strong, calloused fingers tightened around the back of Amaranthe’s neck. She couldn’t see her own attacker, but he spoke from right behind her.

“Captain,” he asked in a rich baritone, that of an older but obviously not-as the grip pinning her proved-infirm man, “is hijacking a train still a capital punishment in the empire?”

“Yes, my lord. It is. In addition,” the captain said, his tone icy, “it is also quite illegal to attack warrior-caste children.”

Amaranthe blinked. It was all the movement she could manage at the moment. Warrior-caste children that muttered to each other in Kyattese? Just who in all the abandoned mines in the empire was standing behind her? Another general charging in to make a claim on the throne?

Books, with his head turned sideways toward her, must have had a better view of the man behind her, or he was simply more adept at assembling the pieces of this particular puzzle, for his mouth dropped open in… Amaranthe was sure that was recognition.

“Enlighten me,” she whispered to him.

“I… I could be mistaken,” Books whispered back, “since I’ve never met the man nor even seen him in person, military history not being my favorite subject in the least, but-”

The captain jostled Books, probably to discourage him from talking. Amaranthe wished the jostle would encourage him to get to the point.

“Who?” she mouthed, wanting the name, not an explanation.

The captain was discussing what to do with “these interlopers” with a third man, another officer. Take them to the capital to face the magistrate or simply hurl them from the train and let the mountain-and the high-speed fall-handle the matter?

“That one is a criminal with a bounty on her head.” A finger jabbed toward Amaranthe’s nose. “The others may very well be too.”

Books finally mouthed a response to Amaranthe’s question. “Fleet Admiral Starcrest.”

Amaranthe sagged insomuch as the iron grip holding her would allow.

One of the empire’s greatest war heroes. And her just outed as a criminal. Oh, yes, this was sure to go well.

• • •

The air smelled of musty tent canvas, coal smoke, and the pungent scent of sandalwood incense. That aroma was popular amongst Nurian practitioners; they believed it focused the mind. An odd odor to find in a Turgonian army tent, but not a surprising one.

Few sounds came from within the canvas enclosure-only the soft hiss of the fire-but outside, men moved about. Some spoke, some grunted and grumbled as they carried gear, and others simply walked past, their boots crunching on snow and ice.

Sicarius opened his eyes. He shouldn’t have. Wakefulness brought awareness.

And memory. And pain.

Finding the former too depressing to contemplate, he examined the latter, assessing his fitness. Though the aches that emanated from his calf, shoulder, and abdomen were not trivial, the physical pain wasn’t as intense as he would have expected. He recalled being shot multiple times, and before that, the soul construct had torn a chunk out of his leg. He grew aware of bandages around the wounds, stiff after being saturated with blood that had since dried. All of his digits responded to orders to move, and he flexed his muscles without untoward discomfort.

The mental pain…

Sicarius closed his eyes again. His son was dead. Amaranthe was dead. The rest of her team was likely dead as well-at the least Basilard and Maldynado would have fallen, just as Sespian had, crushed beneath that monstrous artifact from the past.

Footsteps crunched outside the tent. A moment later, the flap lifted, and cold air flowed inside.

A white-haired general with thick spectacles strode in, followed by two Nurians, one the silver-haired practitioner who’d created the soul construct and the other, a younger fellow with a limp. Enemies, Sicarius’s instincts cried, and he sat up, a hand going to his waist, where his black dagger usually hung. It wasn’t there. None of his knives were. He’d been stripped of shirt and shoes as well. He might have attacked the Nurians anyway, but a strange tingle throbbed at his temple. He found himself lying down on his back again, his muscles operating of their own accord-no, of the practitioner’s accord. In a final humiliation, his hands betrayed him by folding across his abdomen, fingers laced. His face tilted attentively toward the newcomers.

Flintcrest was eying him through those thick spectacles, chomping on a cigar as if he wished he were chomping on Sicarius. “It’s not a good idea, Kor Nas. Safest to kill him right now, if you can.”

“Of course I can,” the silver-haired man said smoothly, his accent barely distinguishable. “But I wouldn’t have brought my associate to continue healing his wounds if I intended to do that.”

“This man isn’t some soldier,” Flintcrest said. “He’s an ancestors-cursed assassin, a notorious one. He’s killed dozens of high-ranking Turgonians, including one of my fellow satrap governors.”

“I know precisely who he’s killed. The Nurians have also suffered at his hands. But he can be made to work for us now, as surely as my soul construct did. Perhaps one of his first tasks will be to figure out a way to retrieve my pet from the bottom of the lake.” The Nurian’s dark eyes glittered, the almond shapes narrowing further as they oozed menace toward Sicarius.

As far out into the lake as he’d hurled the creature’s trap, Sicarius would drown trying to swim down and open it. Perhaps that was a way to escape this. Better to be dead than enslaved, especially now when there was nothing to live for, nothing waiting for him if he fought and escaped. One way or another, these people would send him to his death eventually. He cared little what happened in the meantime.

“Well, get him fixed up and out of my camp,” Flintcrest said. “My men will welcome him even less than that beast of yours.”

“That is the plan, General. After which target should I send him first?”

Flintcrest grimaced. “You want me to make use of an assassin?”

“You were willing to make use of my beast, as you call it.”

“I… don’t remember agreeing to that exactly either.”

“So long as you agree to my people’s requests for favorable trade agreements,” spoke a third man as he pushed aside the tent flap and walked inside. In his early thirties, with shoulder-length black hair swept into a topknot, he wore a feathered flute and a long rek rek pipe across his back as others would wear a sword. The items were the symbols of a Nurian diplomat.

Kor Nas waved to the healer. “Finish repairing my new minion.”

“Yes, saison.”

Saison, the Nurian word didn’t mean “master” precisely, more like a term of respect for a high-ranking practitioner, often a teacher, but it might as well have meant it in this case. He’d be loyal to the older man and do as told.

“I have not forgotten, He shu,” Flintcrest told the diplomat. “The trade agreements will be created as promised.”

He shu, that was an address for a male who shared blood with a great chief, close blood usually. After all the missions Sicarius had undertaken for Emperor Raumesys, ensuring Nuria wouldn’t gain a toehold in the empire, it irked him to know that the Nurians might have found a way in anyway. He didn’t know whether they’d be worse than this Forge outfit or not. He decided he didn’t care-what could he do about it at this point anyway? — though he did admit that it bothered him that everything he had endured in his life had been for naught.

The healer laid a hand on Sicarius’s bandaged abdomen and warmth spread from the fingertips. Weariness seeped in as well. He didn’t bother seeking a meditative state, didn’t bother with trying to control his sleep-or his dreams. He simply sank into oblivion.