Forged in Blood I (16 page)

A moment passed before Basilard signed,
You want us to risk our lives to get a look at it?

“I’d prefer not to risk anything, but it might be possible to find its trail and follow it back to its master.” It occurred to Sicarius that he was using Amaranthe-like logic on Basilard, albeit without the smile or any of the charisma. She truly was having an effect on him. Why should he talk Basilard into risking his life? He’d been useful enough for splitting up the large task of scouting the entire fort, but this was different. “I will go the direct way back to the factory.” Sicarius pointed in the direction of the creature’s howl. “Go the safer way if you wish.”

He returned to the trail, taking up the soundless, tireless jog that he could maintain all night. A moment later, Basilard appeared at his side.

Huh. Sicarius truly hadn’t meant to talk Basilard into joining him. It seemed strange that he would stay out of loyalty or some notion of comradeship.

As if guessing his thoughts, or feeling the need to justify his presence, Basilard signed,
Someone will need to tell Amaranthe what happened to you when your body is found mauled and half-eaten on the dock.

“Of course,” Sicarius said.

They continued their jog and, by unspoken agreement, stayed close to the trees. Images of past dealings with soul constructs came to Sicarius’s mind, most recently the blocky panther-like one that had chased him all over Larocka Myll’s mansion and the surrounding grounds. He’d barely stayed ahead of the preternatural predator, and if Amaranthe hadn’t come up with that scheme to bury it in cement, he would have died that night. There had been another instance where he’d dealt with a Nurian soul construct. A giant viper-like creature ritually raised from the sacrifices of a dozen villagers had been sent to chase him, to avenge the death of a great chief Raumesys had ordered assassinated. He hadn’t killed that soul construct, only evaded it long enough to catch a ship back to Turgonia. To this day, he wondered if it still prowled the Nurian continent, waiting for him should he ever step foot on the mainland again.

This one, Sicarius told himself, pushing aside the memories to focus on the present, probably wasn’t here for him. His senses nudged him, and he slowed down. They were nearing the north end of the docks, not far from that yacht club where the Forge woman was supposed to be staying. Coincidence?

Before they reached the first private docks, a faint crunch reached his ears. This time he stopped, easing to the side of the path, hugging the shadows provided by a snow-dusted evergreen bush.

Basilard stepped off the trail with him.
You saw something.

The sky had lightened enough in the east that Sicarius could make out the hand signs more easily. He touched his ear in response. It had been a few minutes since they’d heard a howl, but that crunch—

He lifted his head. There it was again.

He pointed.

A creature four or five times the size of a lion hound—it must weight over six hundred pounds—padded out of an alley. Though there were no nearby lamps to illuminate it, Sicarius made out massive muscular limbs and the huge barrel chest he’d imagined when he first heard the howl. Like the panther-like construct they’d faced the year before, it lacked fur, having instead the bare, lumpy features of something sculpted from clay, if by a fat-fingered artisan. The fangs ringing the inside of its stout maw were too long to allow its jaw to close fully, but it probably didn’t matter; it could tear off a man’s limbs—or rip his heart from his chest—without closing its mouth. It didn’t need to eat meat, subsisting, if the stories were true, on less tangible fare. Human souls.

The creature was padding across the waterfront street, toward the lake, but it paused in the middle. Its broad head swung to the right, crimson eyes directed at Sicarius and Basilard. They’d gotten too close. So much for the tracking plan.

A hound-like nose lifted, and snuffling sounds whispered across the intervening quarter mile as it tested the air. A long, thin tail stuck out straight behind it like a flagpole.

Basilard touched Sicarius’s arm and pointed at the closest trees. Sicarius had already taken note of the surrounding options, choosing a sturdy hemlock as a likely candidate. If that creature, with those thick muscled haunches, sprinted toward them, it’d cross the quarter mile in heartbeats, but he believed he could reach that tree and scale it to twenty feet in the same amount of time. What he didn’t know was whether wood would be strong enough to deter the creature. It didn’t
look
like something built for climbing, but it might have the power to tear a tree’s roots from the ground.

The sniffs halted, the tail grew even more rigid, and its front paw lifted. Like a pointer targeting grouse in a thicket, the creature aimed at Sicarius.

“Go,” he whispered.

Basilard was already in motion. So was the creature.

Sicarius sprinted for his chosen tree. Basilard had picked the same one. Fortunately, the trunk was wide enough for both of them to scramble up on opposite sides. In the quiet morning surroundings, the beast’s exhales were audible, as was the churning of claws on snow as it covered the ground in twenty-foot bounds.

Halfway up to the first branch, Sicarius paused to hurl his throwing knife. The mundane blade would not hurt the otherworldly creation, but maybe it would pause.

Without waiting to see if the blade struck the construct’s eye, Sicarius returned to climbing, his practiced fingers finding holds in the rough bark. He reached for the first branch, his hand brushing the cold wood, but the creature slammed into the tree. The force knocked his hand to the side—he was lucky it didn’t knock him out of the hemlock entirely.

Wood snapped somewhere above, and green needles rained onto the creature. It merely backed up to charge again.

Sicarius picked out a second tree for a backup perch, though it was too far away to reach without returning to the ground first. Crossing the distance would take an eternity during which they’d be vulnerable to attack.

Basilard lowered his hand, offering help. Sicarius climbed into the lower branches without it, giving Basilard a flat look. He’d merely been considering other options, not pausing because he needed assistance.

Basilard looked… amused. At least until the creature slammed into the tree again. More needles fell to the snow below, and a groan emanated from the trunk. Their perch wouldn’t survive the battering indefinitely. Sicarius decided he’d made a mistake in not taking Basilard’s earlier advice. The admission would gain him little now.

Basilard wrapped an arm around the trunk, freeing his fingers so he could sign.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been stuck in an awkward position with you, due to your interest in seeking information for Amaranthe.

“It was your choice to come.”

Sicarius considered his knives and the contents of his pockets, wondering if he had anything that could harm the soul construct, or at least deter it from further molesting their tree. His black dagger might scrape its flesh, but he doubted even a pierced eye would stop it. He considered the cloud-filled eastern horizon and thought about sawing through a few branches and dropping them on its head, if only to buy them time. The last soul construct had possessed a built-in sense to stay hidden, meaning it had disappeared at dawn or when great numbers of people were approaching. He hoped this one had a similar instinct, or they would be in trouble.

If I returned and you didn’t, Amaranthe would have been upset with me.

Gnawing sounds arose from below—the canine construct had changed tactics. Instead of ramming the tree with its shoulder, it was tearing huge chunks from the base. The scent of freshly cut hemlock drifted up.

“She would have forgiven you,” Sicarius said.

At least we have clothing this time.

“Nudity would have been impractical given the season,” Sicarius said before realizing Basilard had been joking. Determined to improve his skills in that area, he added, “Also given our need for pockets.” He pulled out a foldaway serrated knife from one of his own pockets.

Basilard grinned. If only Sicarius could get that response from Sespian.

Since the creature was staying in one place—though gnawing off shards of wood at an alarming rate—Sicarius decided to try the branch idea. He shifted positions so he could get to one over its head.

Basilard waved at the base of the tree—the trunk must be six or eight feet in diameter, but the construct had already gnawed a third of the way through.
Where to when it fells this tree?

Still sawing, Sicarius considered the tall brick buildings across from the docks. If they had a suitable distraction, they might be able to reach the first of them, climb up, and hop from rooftop to rooftop. Otherwise, their best bet was to run up another tree.

Before the serrated blade cut all the way through, the weight of the branch took it down. It plummeted, and his aim proved true. The branch smashed into the top of the creature’s head. It staggered back, startled for a moment, but it didn’t let out a yelp or whine or anything to indicate it had been damaged. Instead it glared up at Sicarius, crimson eyes full of threat.

Basilard signed,
Is it my imagination or does it seem to be glaring at you specifically?

The massive hound returned to tearing chunks out of the base of the tree.

Sicarius eyed the waterfront street. With the approach of dawn, men and women were about, heading for work. Several blocks away, a trolley pulled around a corner, its bell dinging as people hopped off.

“There
is
easier prey around if all it wants is a meal,” Sicarius said.

A shudder coursed through the tree. Wood cracked, and creaks and snaps sounded from within the trunk. Sicarius braced himself, preparing to leap free.

Basilard signed,
The next closest tree?

“You go that way. I’ll run for the buildings.”

Are you being noble and sacrificing yourself so I can get away, or do you believe it’ll chase me, giving you time to reach the rooftops?

The trunk shuddered again. The soul construct backed up, preparing itself for one last ramming.

“Amaranthe would be displeased if I deliberately sacrificed you,” Sicarius said, on the balls of his feet, ready to spring free.

It’s not escaping me that you didn’t answer my question. You’ve displeased Amaranthe before.

Sicarius didn’t answer. He doubted the soul construct would follow Basilard; for whatever reason, it was intent on him.

The creature raced full speed at the tree and leaped, hurling all of its weight at the trunk. A final snap announced the hemlock’s demise. The tree pitched several feet to the side, and Sicarius was on the verge of leaping, but the trunk halted, not quite ready to plummet all the way down.

“Wait,” Sicarius said, for the construct had paused, an ear cocked toward the lake.

Basilard had been in the middle of springing away, and he tried to catch himself, lunging for a branch, but another shudder coursed through the tree, and he missed the grasp. He dropped to the ground not ten feet from the creature, his feet slipping on the ice.

Sicarius jumped down, hurling the serrated knife to draw the beast’s attention, then raced toward the buildings. He knew as he ran that he wouldn’t have enough time—he’d gauged the speed at which the construct covered ground and run the calculations in his head—but maybe if he got close enough to the dockworkers, it’d decide that it couldn’t reveal itself, then turn away.

When he didn’t hear paws hammering the ground behind him, Sicarius glanced back. The creature wasn’t following him. A feeling of concern—one he wouldn’t have expected in regard to anyone except Amaranthe or Sespian—came over him. He slowed down, searching the snow for Basilard. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. But there wasn’t any blood nor other signs of a fight either. Only the wool cap he’d been wearing lay in the snow. Maybe he’d simply run up the next tree. The construct remained in the same spot, its head cocked toward the lake. Like a dog that had heard its owner’s whistle to come home?

That big, blunt head rotated slowly, its red-eyed gaze landing on Sicarius again. Maybe not a command to come after all. Maybe one to kill. The creature turned so it faced him, and Sicarius prepared to race away. He had a head start this time. He’d reach the buildings. He’d—

The creature sprang. Not, as he expected, toward him, but toward the lake. It ran to the shoreline, leaped into the air, and was paddling its legs before it hit the water.

Still crouching, ready to run, Sicarius watched for a long moment before he relaxed. Remembering the bounty on his head and that human dangers existed in the city as well, he took a quick survey of his surroundings—in the poor lighting, nobody seemed close enough to have seen the incident, though a couple of men on a dock were pointing in the direction of the destroyed tree. Sicarius jogged back to see if Basilard was indeed safe.

As Sicarius approached, Basilard shimmied down the trunk of the nearest standing tree. He appeared unharmed, though he offered a sheepish shrug and retrieved his cap.
That was lucky.

“Indeed.” Sicarius watched the creature as it continued to swim. It wasn’t heading to the yacht club after all. Recalling the theory about the ancient aircraft hiding on the lake bottom, he wondered if the construct would disappear beneath the waves, swimming down to join an underwater master. But would Forge be working with Nurians? Their plans were to support Ravido, not assassinate him.

Where’s it going?

The size of its head kept it in view for several moments, and Sicarius guessed it had swum a couple of miles before it finally faded from sight. In that time, it didn’t dip below the surface. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the Forge people. He considered the direction it had been swimming. Southwest. He’d run around the entire lake enough times to know the geography by heart. “In the winter, there’s an ice harvesting camp over there,” he said, remembering a mission he and Amaranthe had shared there once. “It’s too early in the season for that though.” He nodded toward the few inches of frozen crust at the edge of the lake.