Lindsay Buroker - Forged in Blood I

Before Amaranthe, Maldynado, and their prisoners had taken more than two steps toward the door, another soldier stomped into view, this one rounding the paper roll by the wall. Amaranthe and Maldynado flattened themselves to the side of the press, yanking their prisoners with them. She kept the pistol pressed to her man’s ribs to ensure silence.

The soldier pulled the wheelbarrow inside, then stuck his head outside. “Evik, Rudev, what are you doing out there?”

Amaranthe’s man inhaled and tensed, as if to shout and try to escape. She stood on tiptoes to clasp her hand across his mouth as she dug the pistol in deeper. “Nobody will hear the shot over the sound of the presses,” she growled in his ear. A lie, of course, but maybe it would give him something to think about for a few seconds. In that time, the fellow at the door stepped outside. He waved to someone, and lights flashed out there before the door closed, blocking the view. Another lorry driving up?

Maldynado looked over his shoulder at her, a question in his eyes. What now? He must have seen the lights too.

There weren’t any other doors within sight that they could escape through. Amaranthe eyed the stairs and finally nodded that way. They could go up to the loft, leave these two tied, and escape through that vent in the attic.

Still pressing the pistol into her captive’s ribs, Amaranthe guided him toward the stairs. They had to halt twice to duck behind machines. The two men who’d been carrying empty boxes earlier walked toward the door, their boxes full of pamphlets now.

Amaranthe and the others reached the staircase leading down without being seen. She was on the verge of releasing the breath she was holding when the back door opened again, letting more soldiers in. There were shadows around the stairs, but not that many shadows. Further, her captive took that moment to test her again. Maybe he’d figured out that she wouldn’t shoot after all.

He pretended to trip. She saw the ruse for what it was and adjusted her weight, pulling back to keep him up and on his feet.

“Someone’s looking this way,” Maldynado blurted and went for the closest set of stairs, the one leading down.

Still struggling to keep her captive on his feet without shooting him, Amaranthe almost tumbled down the stairs after him. If not for Maldynado, pushing his man down at a more measured pace, she would have ended up somersaulting down the hard stone steps, her limbs entangled with those of her prisoner. His broad back acted as a nicely meaty barrier, though, stopping their progress, and she found her balance. Her soldier had a harder time righting himself, and his foot slipped off a step. He lurched to the side, smacking his head on the stone wall. Amaranthe failed to feel sympathetic toward him.

“Anyone coming?” Maldynado whispered at the bottom, all four of them crowding onto the tight, musty landing, hemmed in by looming stone walls and an old but solid oak door.

“Not yet.”

The two soldiers were muttering something to each other. Amaranthe, fearing her threats with the pistol weren’t proving effective, caught one of his arms with her free hand, digging her thumb into a pressure point in his wrist and twisting the limb behind his back until he sucked in a pained gasp of air. He stopped muttering. One of Sicarius’s comments drifted through the back of her mind: the promise of pain is often more effective than the application of pain, for the mind conjures fears greater than reality. Sure, that worked for a scary-looking fellow dressed in black with a reputation darker than an eclipse, but for her? It was ever a struggle to convince men that she’d go through with her threats, hence her preference for avoiding the taking of prisoners. But they could hardly let these men go now. They’d charge right up the stairs, and, judging by the numbers of orders shouted above, there were more soldiers than ever up there. At least nobody had come over to peer down the staircase at them. Yet.

“Why’d you dart over to that press?” Amaranthe asked.

“Sorry about that,” Maldynado said. “Seeing Mancrest and that woman surprised me. What are we going to do with these two? They’ve seen our faces.”

Amaranthe was more interested in finding out more about “Mancrest and that woman,” but she could ask him for details once they escaped the building. Maldynado’s point was pertinent. She didn’t want Forge, or anyone else, knowing her team was back in town already.

“If we can get out, we could take them with us,” she said. “Tie them up back at our hideout for a few days so they can’t blab.” Having to guard prisoners would reduce the number of team members she could employ in the field, but maybe, given a little time, she could convince the soldiers to throw in their lot with Sespian. They were young. They might be influenceable.

“We don’t have a hideout yet,” Maldynado pointed out.

“I’m sure we do.” Amaranthe trusted the others had found something. “We just don’t know where it is yet.”

“How is that-”

“Discuss later. Is that door unlocked, by chance?”

Before he could answer, two people walked into view. No, they stopped within view. Ugh.

Amaranthe tightened the arm hold on her soldier in case the urge to call out revisited him. He sucked in a pained breath and rose to his tiptoes. Maldynado’s prisoner made a similar hiss.

The people who had stopped up above weren’t soldiers. It was a man and a woman. The man, a gray-haired fellow in a black and gray suit of immaculate cut, leaned his back against the wrought iron railing at the top of the stairwell. His face wasn’t visible, though he seemed to be talking and pointing to his comrade. The woman… she was facing the man, her arm linked with one of his, so Amaranthe could see more of her features. She sucked in a breath almost as sharp as the one her prisoner had made, for she recognized the short, buxom woman with the spectacles perched low on her nose. Ms. Worgavic. Amaranthe’s old teacher and one of the Forge founders, Worgavic had been the one to allow-no, order -her interrogation.

Anger surged into her chest, a hard tight ball of emotion that dug in behind her breastbone. She forgot about her prisoner. Her hand tightened so hard around the pistol that her fingers ached. She lifted it, no longer aiming it at her captive but at the woman leaning against the railing above.

Had Maldynado not grabbed her arm, pulling it down, she would have fired. The couple pushed away from the railing, disappearing from sight, and it was too late. The door must have opened again, for a cold draft wafted down the stairs, startling some of the thoughtless fury out of her system when it hit her cheeks.

“What were you doing ?” Maldynado let go of her arm, but his whisper was harsh. “I thought we weren’t letting anyone know we were here. If you’d shot Mancrest, that woman probably would have gotten away. Not to mention everyone left up there would have heard you fire.” He jabbed his hand upward.

“Mancrest?” Amaranthe stared at him. What was he talking about? That hadn’t been Deret.

Despite her and Maldynado’s distraction, the prisoners were being still. Maybe because she was waving her pistol around with a crazed look on her face.

“Lord Colonel Armott Mancrest, retired. Deret’s father.” Maldynado peered into her eyes. “You didn’t recognize him? Why were you going to shoot him then?”

“Not him, her . That was one of the Forge founders. The one who-” Amaranthe’s voice cracked and she looked away. She was still clenching the pistol like a carpenter bent on smashing an irritating nail into oblivion. Calm down, girl, she told herself. We’re past this.