Lindsay Buroker - Ice Cracker II

Her attack sent him back a step, but he kept his feet and parried the succession of blows that followed.

The shaman’s eyes widened when the burning foliage highlighted Amaranthe’s face. He pointed his staff at her and growled, “Lokdon,” in a heavy accent.

“Even foreigners are interested in collecting my bounty these days?” She shifted to the side so the shaman turned, opening up his back for Books. “I’m flattered.”

Books started in, but two mercenaries pounded around the corner of the building.

“Great,” he muttered.

His darting gaze chanced on Terith, balanced on the edge of the roof. Amaranthe had removed her crossbow for the sword fight, and the boy now held it. Their eyes met, and Books pantomimed firing it at the approaching men. Not sure whether Terith would understand-or had any idea how to use the weapon-Books found his ready stance, and braced himself for the coming attack.

Then a quarrel clipped the shoulder of the closest mercenary. He jerked to a halt, grabbed the bolt, and stared at the tip. No doubt, he remembered Amaranthe’s promise about the poison.

“Shoot any others who come close,” Books called.

The boy was fumbling-trying to figure out how the lever loaded another quarrel-but the threat made both mercenaries sprint back around the corner.

Books leapt a patch of flaming grass and angled toward the shaman’s back.

Again sensing the attack, the foreigner shifted and blocked Books’s swing. Blond braids flying, the agile man retreated under the lean-to and put his back against the woodpile. He kept Amaranthe at bay with his sword and Books back with the staff.

Growling, Books tried to hack through the carved wood, but magic reinforced it. His blade did not even chip it.

Though the shaman seemed unable to concentrate on magic while whipping his weapons about, his defensive skills could have made brick walls jealous. He pursued no killing strikes, but all he had to do was last until more mercenaries showed up with guns. Books and Amaranthe had to end this soon.

Books’s elbow thudded into the pole supporting the lean-to. At first he cursed the obstacle, but realization flooded over him: his sword might not cut the shaman’s staff, but no magic reinforced the poles.

“Let’s be loggers!” Books barked, trusting Amaranthe to catch on-and hoping the shaman, who would have to translate to his native tongue, wouldn’t until too late.

Books jumped back, coiled his body, and whipped his sword about with all the momentum he could summon. Steel cracked through wood, and the pole snapped.

A second crack echoed through the night as Amaranthe sliced through the other support. She kicked the startled shaman, hurling him backward into the woodpile before the roof came down.

Remembering Terith, Books dropped his sword and caught the surprised boy as the lean-to collapsed. Wood splintered and flew, and dust clogged the air.

A hand clawed its way out from the wreckage, but as soon as the shaman’s bloodied head appeared, Amaranthe finished him.

Before Books could congratulate her, Terith pointed. Four mercenaries remained, and they all stood by the corner of the building, staring. Battered and singed, they did not appear that threatening, but Books groaned at the idea of more fighting.

With one hand, Amaranthe grabbed her crossbow, which had tumbled down with Terith. With the other, she brandished the bloody sword. Books lowered the boy, pushing Terith behind, while he grabbed his own blade.

“I’m warmed up now,” Amaranthe announced for the benefit of the mercenaries. She jerked her chin at Books. “You?”

“Oh, yes.” Pretending his battered backside, shoulder, and elbow were not crying out with admonitions about age-appropriate activities, he also pointed his sword at the mercenaries.

The men appeared more crestfallen than eager for battle though. Their downcast eyes took in the dead shaman and the duo before them, and before they could even discuss the situation, the back two spun and ran into the night.

“Uhm,” one of the remaining two said.

“Er.”

“We, ah…”

“You can go now,” Amaranthe said.

“Yes, good idea.”

A moment later, only Books, Amaranthe, and Terith remained. Only when they were alone did Amaranthe sink to the ground, rubbing her dirt- and soot-grimed face. Though she managed a bleary smile, her hands trembled. She was human, after all.

With no pretensions to the contrary, Books collapsed on the blackened earth. “As I was saying, next time you notice a glum cast to my face, you need not arrange such a grand distraction.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said.

Terith sat between them, pulling up the remaining strands of grass.

“Do you have any relatives, Terith?” Amaranthe asked him.

“An aunt and uncle in Korgar,” Terith muttered.

“We can take you to them,” she said.

A part of Books wanted to take the boy himself, for surely he would understand Terith’s pain better than anyone else. But the boy probably deserved someone who understood happiness instead. Besides, a fugitive had no right raising a child. Someday perhaps, when they were pardoned. Not today.

Books put a hand on Terith’s shoulder. “Son, you’re not responsible for any of this, you understand?”

The boy shook his head. “It’s my fault.”

“You had good intentions. You wanted your father to be happy.”

“If not for me, Father wouldn’t be dead,” Terith whispered.

“No, it’s not your…” Books trailed off when he caught a knowing look from Amaranthe. She knew his story, how his son had died, and how he had never stopped blaming himself and never would. “All right, Terith, maybe you’re right and you do share some responsibility here. You were trying to help your father, but you weren’t honest with him, and he got himself into trouble because of it. I don’t blame you, but it’s true that you inadvertently played a role in his death.”

The boy’s shoulders slumped lower, but he nodded. This, he believed. Books saying none of it was Terith’s fault rang false, just as it did for Books when people tried to tell him he could not blame himself for his son’s death.

“You’ll probably never forgive yourself either,” Books said, “but eventually there’ll be days when you can forget about the pain and find purpose and…contentment in life again.”

“Is that enough?” Terith whispered.

Books met Amaranthe’s eyes again, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.” He gave her a faint smile. “Especially if you have plenty of distractions to keep things interesting.”

Amaranthe ran alongside the frozen lake, thighs weary, calves sore, ragged breaths steaming before her. The short sword belted at her waist felt ten times heavier than it was. An inch of fresh snow blanketed the trail, and thick flakes wafted from the steely sky. They stuck in her lashes and melted down her flushed cheeks.

The marker came into view, and she dug a pocket watch free as she passed it. She groaned at the time, shoulders slumping.

“Maybe I can blame the snow,” she muttered. “Or the cold. Or maybe I can blame-” She rounded a bend and almost tripped over two bodies sprawled across the path, “-the dead soldiers on the trail,” she finished, voice cracking as the breeze shifted and the butcher shop stench enveloped her.

The soldiers, recognizable by their black uniforms and military-issue pistols, had died recently: slit throats poured steaming blood onto the white trail. A tangle of scuffs and footprints trampled the snow around the bodies, but no trails led away from the scene.

Exercise forgotten, Amaranthe yanked her sword free. She crouched and surveyed her surroundings, wondering where the killer had hidden to launch the ambush-and wondering if that killer might be there now, waiting to do it again.