Bloodforged (48 page)

A pair of soldiers was coming her way, dragging a cultist by the legs. She licked her lips. A chance! She would use her Lahmian wiles on them. She would trick them into removing the sword.

The men threw the cultist down beside her, then turned away as he groaned and mumbled incoherently.

‘Sirs,’ she whispered, then tried again, louder. ‘Sirs! I beg you! A small mercy!’

The soldiers looked around, scowling. They did not look the merciful sort. She smiled, trying to look sultry.

‘Sirs, please,’ she murmured as they slouched closer. ‘I would not burn alive. Pull out the sword, so I may bleed to death before the flames find me.’

The soldiers looked at each other and laughed. The first kicked her in the face. The second spat on her.

‘You want mercy, daemon-lover?’ he asked. ‘I’ll give you mercy!’

He grabbed the wooden sword and twisted it in her guts. Ulrika cried out in agony, but he wasn’t done. He ripped it out of her and beat her with it, smashing her head and shoulders and arms until it splintered and snapped.

‘There’s your mercy, you traitorous bitch!’ he cried, then flung the broken sword at her and turned away, laughing, with his mate.

Ulrika sagged forwards, groaning, her head throbbing and blood running down into her eyes. She lifted her hand to wipe it away, then stopped. She could lift her hand! She grinned to herself through bloody teeth. She might have failed at Lahmian wiles, and taken a beating for it, but the men had pulled the sword out nonetheless.

Still, she was much too weak to run away. She doubted she could even crawl, and there were hundreds of people between her and freedom. She needed strength.

She looked to the cultist the soldiers had thrown down beside her. She had heard him moan. He still lived. With a wary glance around, she caught him by the collar and pulled him on top of her. He mumbled wordlessly and his head slumped against her chest. She pulled back his hood and removed the black veil he wore over his face, then tipped up his chin and sank her fangs into his neck. He twitched and grunted, but was too broken to pull away.

She drank deeply, moaning with relief, and willing the blood to mend the torn tissues of her middle. She knew it would take more than one feeding to heal such a wound, but as long as she gained enough strength to run, she would take care of the rest later.

From nearby came a sergeant’s hoarse bellow, and more soldiers came forwards, these armed with torches and halberds. She lay still, hiding under her victim’s bulk, as two shoved their brands into the pile a few paces on either side of her. Immediately flames leapt up and she heard the screams of the not yet dead.

The soldiers backed away again, watching the flames, and she resumed her feeding. She had to heal as much as possible before her attempt. The cultist’s blood flowed again into her veins, warming them and spreading strength to the muscles of her arms and legs, but the flames were roasting her face now. There was no more time.

She shoved the man aside and looked around. The crowd stood fifteen paces back, with the soldiers in a ring just in front of them. The Opera House was directly before her, and the darkest part of the square to her right. That was where she would go.

She rolled away from the pyre, hoping the eyes of the crowd would be watching the flames. There was no outcry, so she rolled again, then pressed up onto her hands and knees. The wound in her gut grabbed her and made her arms tremble, but she fought through it and started to crawl.

‘Hoy!’ came a woman’s voice. ‘One of them’s escaping!’

Ulrika looked up. Three soldiers were coming towards her, halberds lowered. She fought the urge to run, and stayed down, crawling like she could barely move.

They spread out as they approached her, pulling back to stab her from three sides. With a shriek, she leapt up and dashed between them, though her belly felt like it was tearing asunder. They cried out and thrust at her, but she was already past them and sprinting for the hole they had left in their line.

The other soldiers converged towards her, and the crowd, filled with patriotic spirit, closed ranks to stop her. Ulrika sprang at them, snarling and shooting out her claws and fangs, and they fell back screaming. She broke through them with the soldiers after her, and sprinted for a gap between two buildings at the edge of the square. A thrown halberd skittered under her feet and almost tripped her, but she ran on, clutching her stomach.

She ran into the gap and collapsed against one of the buildings, heaving up a throatful of blood and bile that spattered her legs. It had been too much too soon. Her whole body shook with pain and fatigue.

Footsteps thudded behind her. They were coming. She looked up the side of the building. It was cut stone, loosely mortared. She grabbed for the first handhold and pulled herself up, groaning, then climbed on, closing her eyes against the pain.

The boots boomed below her.

‘There she is!’

‘Bring her down!’

‘Call for a gun!’

Another halberd glanced off the stone beside her. She flinched, but climbed on as rocks and cobbles struck all around her. A few yards further and she felt the lip of the roof. She pulled herself onto it and lay there, gasping.

‘Into the building!’

‘We’ll go up through the roof!’

Ulrika moaned and pulled herself up, then staggered, doubled over, across the flat roof. There was a gap on the far side. She gathered her strength and leapt it, then crashed down on the slanted slates of the building beyond. The world dimmed as pain blossomed inside her. She was going to black out. They would find her.

She lifted her spinning head. There was an ornamental cupola at the peak of the roof, little more than a dovecote with an onion-dome on top. She crawled for it. Tiny arched windows lined the base. Were they large enough?

She caught the sill of one and pulled her head and one shoulder in. A score of pigeons squeaked and battered her face with their wings as they fled. She shielded her eyes, then pushed in. It was tight, and her ribs and guts screamed as they pressed against the frame, but at last she squirmed through and dropped to the wooden floor within. It was inches thick with pigeon droppings and she covered her nose and mouth to keep from gagging.

From outside came the echoes of men’s voices. They were on the other roof now. Had they seen her? Had they seen the pigeons? She tried to draw her sword so she could fight them when they came, but her limbs were too weak. She hurt too much. She couldn’t move. Her head fell back, thudding on the filthy boards, and blackness overwhelmed her once again.

Ulrika woke with a cry as something touched her shoulder. She jerked away, reaching for her sword, and a pigeon flapped away from her, spooking the rest of the flock. She rolled, groaning, as they clattered from the cupola again, and clutched her aching abdomen. How long had she been out?

She looked out the little windows. It was still night, but only barely. The sky to the east was lightening. It would be morning soon.

Morning?

Panic clutched her as memory returned. Stefan had threatened to kill Galiana before sunset today. Ulrika had to stop him – kill him. But as she rose, her wound tore at her from the inside and she flopped back, hissing and grunting with pain.

How was she to do it? It seemed impossible. Wounded as she was, and with no more than an hour of night left, she would never find him in time, and wouldn’t be strong enough to fight him if she did. But perhaps speed wasn’t so important. Perhaps it would be better to let him kill Galiana and find him afterwards. She had no particular love for the woman, nor enough loyalty to the Lahmian sisterhood to want to defend it at the cost of her life. She could hunt him later, at her leisure.

But she couldn’t. She might not care about the Lahmians, but she had made a vow to protect them, and she had failed in that vow when she had brought Stefan amongst them. Through her, he had killed Evgena. Through her, he had imprisoned the soul of Raiza, the only one of the Praag sisters Ulrika would have been honoured to call friend. Through her, his plan was one last step away from succeeding. She would not allow him to take that step, though it cost her her life. Vengeance after the fact would be not be nearly as sweet as spoiling his game.

She rose again, determined, and squeezed out of the cupola, clenching her teeth against the pain, but as she crawled down the slant of the roof, she stopped again. It was all very well saying she would stop Stefan, but she needed a plan.

She had to go to Evgena’s safe house, that much was certain. No matter where Stefan hid, that was where he would go in the end. But before that, she had to feed again, and finding a victim would take time. The sun would be up before she reached the house. And what if Galiana didn’t let her in? She couldn’t wait in the street for Stefan to come. She would burn to death.

Ulrika growled and lowered her head. It was impossible. Time and the sun were against her. Everything was in Stefan’s favour.

The mask of tragedy that still dangled around her neck mocked her with its down-turned mouth. She reached up to tear it off, then paused, a thrill of inspiration shooting through her. The mask! The mask was the answer!

She turned in the direction of the Novygrad and limped down the roof with renewed purpose. It would take a little time, but if done right, she would hopefully be able to face Stefan no matter when he struck, night or day.

Ulrika found a worthy victim on her way through the city, a pimp who did business out of an abandoned butcher-shop, then, feeling stronger, but by no means strong, she raced back to the bakery. She reached it only steps ahead of the dawn, and the first slanting shafts of sunlight were already lancing through the darkness of the basement before she had finished taking off her doublet and shirt to examine the wound Stefan had given her.

After a night’s rest and two feedings, the entry point was no more than a scabbed, star-shaped scar, but she knew from the swelling and stiffness of her abdomen that all was not yet well inside. It felt as if someone had inflated a balloon under her ribs. She had no idea how to fix this, or if it would heal itself, so she just bandaged her waist as tightly as she could with the ruined shirt, then set about preparing for battle.

First she donned her last whole shirt, then bound it tightly at wrist and neck with strips from the other. Next she put on her grey doublet and breeches, lacing them up as closely as she could, and on top of them, the leather jerkin she had worn when travelling. After that, she pulled on her thigh-high riding boots and tucked the cuffs of the breeches securely down into them.

Then came the most difficult part. The mask of tragedy would hide her face, and her heavy travelling cloak had a hood that would cover her head, but neither kept off the sun entirely. There was still her neck and forehead and the eye and mouth holes of the mask. What she needed was something like the veil the cultists wore, and she cursed herself for not having the forethought to take one while she had the opportunity.

She upended her pack and pawed through her few meagre belongings. She could drape the rest of her torn shirt over her head, but it was white. In the sun, it would be almost impossible to see through. She needed something black and thin. Then she remembered. The slaver Stefan had brought her to feed upon. He had worn a black bandana under his hat!

She hurried to the room they had disposed of him in. His body was still there. She pulled the bandana from his head and sniffed it with distaste. It smelled of three-day-old corpse and pomade, but there was nothing for it. She draped it over her face then bound it tight at her forehead and throat and tucked the ends down under her collar.

Finally, she fitted the mask down over the veil and threw on her heavy cloak, pulling the voluminous hood as far forwards as she could, then tugged on her riding gloves and unfolded the long cuffs so that they overlapped the ends of her sleeves. Her costume was complete. It was constricting, and stiflingly hot, and she was certain she would get her fair share of looks, even in as wild a city as Praag, but she had succeeded in arming herself against the sun – or so she hoped. The proof was in the doing.

She turned to the stairs and squared her shoulders, then marched up and stepped into the daylight.

Ulrika supposed herself fortunate the day was dark and overcast, but nevertheless, after less than a minute under the open sky, she almost turned around and gave it all up as a mistake. Alone, the clothes were hot; under the sun, filtered by clouds though it was, she felt as if she were wearing full plate in the middle of the Nehekharan desert. She was broiling, even when she clung to the shadows, and strength seemed to leech from her with every step, making her dizzy and confused, but there was no option. Finding her way through the sewers and avoiding the things that lived there would take too much time, and she couldn’t risk letting Stefan reach the safe house before her.

Praag seemed as fatigued and disoriented as she was. The manic euphoria Ulrika had noticed since arriving in the city was gone. No one was singing. No one was laughing. The soldiers and merchants and beggars she saw on the street shuffled listlessly by, drab and dispirited, like hung-over revellers trudging home after a party. All the gossip in the markets was of the madness and death at the Opera House, and the cultists who had been burned before it – and the fear that there might be still more lurking in the shadows.