Lindsay Buroker - Ice Cracker II

“I’m sorry, son,” he rasped. “We didn’t kill your father, but we’re going to stop the men who did.”

“I killed him,” the boy whispered.

Books knelt to lean closer. He could not have heard correctly. “What?”

“I killed him. It’s my fault. I made them come.” The boy hiccupped and tears swam in his eyes.

“I’m sure that’s not possible,” Books said. “Ah, what was your name?”

“Terith.”

“Ask him what these mercenaries are doing here.” Amaranthe leaned out the door and popped off another shot. “And if any more are on the property. It’d help to know how many we ultimately have to deal with, especially since you just promised him we’d take care of everyone.”

“Er.” This hardly seemed the time to interrogate the boy-had he witnessed the quarrel strike his father down? Books had seen the knife go into his son’s chest, though he had been too far away to do anything. He rubbed his face, trying to push back the memories. This “distraction” was proving anything but. “How’d you bring the mercenaries?” he asked gently.

“I just wanted to help.” Terith pawed at tears in his eyes. “Mother died last winter. She ran the business stuff. Father knew about trees but not the rest. He didn’t like running things.” The boy sniffled mightily.

“What happened after your mother died?” Books groped for a path to relevance in the boy’s rambling response.

“Father tried to run the business. He tried real hard. But he hated it. I wanted him to be happy again and not yell all the time. I made him think this place was haunted.”

Amaranthe’s head jerked away from the door. Yes, here was the link to the story that brought them out here.

“How?” Books asked.

“Hid stuff, moved stuff, said I saw ancestor spirits.” Terith shrugged. “I thought Father would think Mother’s spirit wanted him to sell the business, and he could go work on someone else’s trees and be happy again. But he thought somebody was trying to scare him off his land, and he got real mad. He decided to hire mercenaries.”

An explosion hit the stairway, and the office trembled.

“How many mercenaries?” Amaranthe peeked out, frowning at whatever she saw.

Terith shook his head. “Father asked a bunch. He wasn’t sure if any would come.”

“Trust me, boy,” Amaranthe said. “If you own a distillery, it’s never a problem enticing mercs to work for you.”

“They shot him. He didn’t have enough money, and they wanted to take all the brandy, and he wouldn’t let them, and they-” Terith’s voice broke off in a choked sob. “It’s my fault.”

“Easy, son.” Books gripped his shoulder. “We’ll work that out later. Now, we have to get out of here.”

He frowned at the small window. Terith might be able to crawl through it but neither Books nor Amaranthe could.

“Is there another way besides the stairs?” Book asked.

Amaranthe’s crossbow twanged. A pistol ball thudded into the frame above her head, raining splinters. She slammed the door shut.

“They’ve got, or they’re making, explosives,” she said.

“How many quarrels do you have left?” Books asked.

“Five.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Her usual smile was bleak.

“Terith.” Books resisted the urge to shake the boy. This had to be done gently, or Terith would break down altogether. “We really need your help. Is there another way out?”

Terith dragged a sleeve across his eyes. “There’s an attic, but the trapdoor is out there.”

“Of course, it is,” Books muttered.

He grabbed the toolbox, hopped onto the desk, and knocked at the ceiling. The first solid thud made him grimace, but he found a hollow spot next to it. If he could cut a hole between the joists, maybe they could squeeze through.

As he withdrew hammer, chisel, and saw, another explosion boomed, this time right below them. The desk jumped, and drawers slid out, crashing to the floor. Books almost pitched over, too.

“I don’t suppose you could keep them from doing that,” he said, setting to work.

Amaranthe looked out the door. Smoke wafted into the room, carrying the sound of ominous snaps and crackles.

“You boys won’t be able to collect my bounty if my body is charred beyond recognition,” she yelled.

“You’ll jump down before that happens,” one called back.

Shouts and laughter mingled with the increasing roar of a fire.

“I think they’re trying to drop the supports for this room,” Amaranthe said. “You might want to hasten the trapdoor-creation process.”

Books sawed. “It’s going to be more of a hole than a door.”

“I’m not fussy. Terith, you fussy?”

With his story told, the boy had fallen silent. He stood in the corner, watching them.

“He’s not fussy,” Amaranthe said.

Books lowered a ragged circle of plywood. “Hand him up, and we’ll see if we can cut our way out on a side where the mercenaries aren’t watching.”

A thunderous crash came from beyond the door, and the room quaked. The stairs had collapsed.

Amaranthe lifted Terith onto the desk. Still silent, the boy allowed Books to push him into the attic. A moment later, Books clambered up himself. He bent to offer Amaranthe a hand, but she gave him the lamp and jumped. She caught the edge and pulled herself up without trouble.

Heat radiated through the floor of the attic, and the smell of warming bat and squirrel dung competed with smoke from below. The lamp spread a wan bubble of light, and metal glinted at one end. At first, Books feared more swordsmen up here, but the metal merely marked a vent.

“We can get out over there,” he whispered.

The chisel made short work of the screws, and fresh night air greeted them. Darkness had descended over the orchard beyond the distillery, but a few lampposts dotting the property provided intermittent light. Below the vent, the roof of a firewood lean-to offered an easy way down.

“That’s convenient,” Books said.

“Unless there are mercenaries in it,” Amaranthe said.

“Now who’s being glum?”

She snorted and stepped up to the hole. Her crossbow caught on the edge for a moment, but she shifted and dropped quietly to the roof. Books lowered Terith, then jumped down after them. He dislodged a shingle, and his foot slid. With an “oomph,” he flopped onto his backside, and the angled roof sent him over the edge.

At least he managed to land on his feet in a crouch. “So much for convenient.”

Something slammed into his back. The force sent him sprawling, and black dots slithered through his vision.

Expecting a second attack, Books rolled sideways and tried to get his feet under him. A blast of fire streaked into the ground he had just left.

A blond-haired foreigner stood below the edge of the roof, a sword in one hand and a staff in the other. The now-flaming grass illuminated green and black tattoos swirling across his cheeks and forehead.

“A shaman,” Books groaned.

The foreigner growled something in his own language.

“Are you here for the job, too?” Books asked. “It’s off, you know. The distillery owner is dead.”

The tip of the carved wooden staff lowered toward him. It glowed red, like a poker left too long in the fire, and Books hurled himself to the side.

Another gout of flame seared the grass and singed the hairs from his arm. His shoulder struck a rock, and he grabbed it.

Hurling it at the shaman disrupted whatever attack was coming next. Books scrambled to his feet and yanked his sword free.

Snarling, the shaman stepped out from under the roof and aimed his staff again.

With her target now visible, Amaranthe dropped, sword angled for a killing blow. Somehow, the shaman sensed her silent descent. He whirled, sword hefted, and metal screeched as their blades met.