Lindsay Buroker - Forged in Blood I

The camp was being watched. He was certain of it.

The area had long ago been logged, so the white fields should have left few hiding places, but there were always dips and rises in seemingly flat land, and the falling snow limited visibility to a quarter mile or so. Further, someone might approach along the waterline, using the clumps of brown vegetation thrusting out of the drifts for camouflage.

“I think we’ll make it by dusk, Mr. Sicarius,” Wodic said, his voice muffled by the welding helmet he wore. The glass faceplate didn’t hide his eyes-and the concern in them as he glanced up from his work. “What is it you think’ll come?”

Though Sicarius knew his own face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, the men must have noticed his frequent surveys of the surrounding land. Normally, he wouldn’t have shared anything with the workers-he required them to complete this task, nothing more-but because they had a loose relationship with Amaranthe, he felt more disposed toward them than he would in other circumstances.

“General Flintcrest has brought a Nurian wizard with him to support his bid for the throne,” Sicarius said.

“That ore-stealing traitor,” Wodic growled. “That’s his camp out there, isn’t it? We’ve known about it, but the soldiers haven’t bothered us yet, so we’ve been staying out of their way. Mederak went to town yesterday, though, and he said Fort Urgot is surrounded. Is that Flintcrest?”

“Heroncrest.” Sicarius directed the crane operator to pick up another beam to reinforce the tee weld Wodic was finishing.

“Them officers are all over the place with their troops,” Wodic grumbled. “Can’t even go into town for a swig of applejack without them stopping to question you, like you’re some foreign mongrel, not a loyal imperial subject who’s lived here his whole life.”

“Continue welding,” Sicarius said. “We must finish this as quickly as possible. The wizard has summoned a creature that is hunting the nights.” He thought about mentioning Sespian, but did not know if these men cared one way or another who was on the throne. “It is hunting loyal imperial subjects.” They ought to be concerned about their own lives if nothing else.

Sicarius thought the workers might be skeptical about wizards and magical creatures, but Wodic must have seen enough to believe in such things, for he only said, “We’ve heard it out hunting the last few nights. We stayed locked up tight in the cabin with the thickest walls. I don’t care how much I had to water the bushes, I wasn’t going outside before morning.”

A flash of movement drew Sicarius’s eye, and he spun toward the source, his black dagger finding its way into his hand. He didn’t see anything except snow falling about one of the cabins on the edge of the camp. A clump of powder dropped from the roof, plopping into a drift below. In other places as well, clumps fell from the roofs as more snow accumulated above the eaves. It might have been what had drawn his attention. Sicarius didn’t sheathe the dagger.

“What is it?” Wodic lifted the faceplate of his helmet.

“Continue working,” Sicarius said, then jogged toward the cabin.

He veered around it, approaching the corner where he’d seen that movement from the opposite side. He slowed his steps, compressing the snow underfoot as softly as possible, making no sound as he drew near. Before he poked his head around the corner, he stopped to listen and sniff the breeze. He also touched his fingers to the chinked log wall, trusting he’d feel it if someone bumped against the cabin on the other side. The smoke from the steam crane tainted the air, making it difficult to pick up lesser scents, and its clanking and hissing also may have smothered lesser sounds, but Sicarius felt something. A faint scrape that traveled through the logs.

Without sheathing the dagger, he pulled out a throwing knife from the trio sheathed on his right forearm. He could throw with equal accuracy with both hands, and he was prepared to loose the blade with his left as he peeked around the corner. Nobody was there.

Sicarius immediately looked up-roofs were a viable place from which to launch an attack. There wasn’t anybody up there either, but a few trickles of powder whispered down from the edge. Using the eaves for cover in case an attack came from above, he eased toward the other corner, eyeing the ground as he approached. Footprints marked the snow, two sets of footprints. Their owners had come from the direction of the southern shoreline. The prints indicated soft shoes with soles that curved up at the edges, hand-made moccasins rather than the more common boots of the Turgonian people. Kendorians or Nurians had such footwear, and the latter was more likely given the situation.

The footprints showed that the people-men he guessed from the depth of the marks, each around his weight-had stopped at the wall, then jumped up. His first guess had been correct.

Something plucked at his senses again. This time, it did have an otherworldly taint to it. The wizard? The signature was faint. People using Made tools, perhaps. He thought of the man with the scimitar who’d been speaking to the practitioner.

Sicarius sheathed the black dagger and, keeping the throwing knife in hand, jumped and caught the gutter. Snow pattered against his face, but he ignored it, pulling his eyes over the edge. He was prepared to release the grip and drop down in an instant, but the roof was empty of everything except snow. And footprints.

He followed the apex of the sloping roof to the other side. According to the tracks, the intruders had leaped off the roof, but the paths below were packed with dozens of bootprints as well as the heavy tire treads from the vehicles that had driven to the dock. Picking out a fresh trail would be difficult.

Sicarius crouched on the edge of the roof, scanning the camp and again testing the air for some telltale scent. By this point, he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t see the intruders. They were either very good, or they had some trinket that bent the light waves around them, rendering them invisible. But if he could determine their goal, he could guess their location.

Kill him? No, they were avoiding him.

The working men had to be the target, Sicarius decided-it would be obvious to a Nurian observer that he was fashioning a trap for the soul construct, and as the wizard’s employees, they’d want to stop that.

He hopped down from the cabin, watching Wodic and Mederak, as well as the crane operator, for any sign of alarm as he approached. Hard at work, they might not notice an attacker until a blade was slipping between their ribs. Sicarius also watched the snow around the trap, hoping he’d catch the indentation of a footprint as it was being made in a patch of soft powder.

If it were he, he’d stand back and shoot arrows into the laborers from afar. The Nurian he’d seen in the army camp had been wearing a bow. But Sicarius returned to the workers without anyone being attacked. Maybe the Nurians believed time was on their side, thanks to their camouflage. Or maybe they believed destroying the trap-or keeping it from being completed-was the priority, thus ensuring nobody else from the capital could come out and complete the work. Already, the bottom and three sides were attached, the walls standing erect in the air, and his sketch was on the seat next to the crane operator, so someone could theoretically finish the task.

The crane.

Without it, nobody would be able to move the trap once it was finished. On land, it’d never fool the soul construct.

Sicarius ran around the steel walls, using them to hide his approach, and scooped up an armful of snow on his way to the crane’s cab. The scent of blood flooded his nostrils. Before he bounded up the side of the vehicle, he knew what he’d find. The driver was slumped in his seat, head lolled back, blood gushing from his slashed throat.