Steel Scars (6 page)

A smile slowly replaces my usual scowl. My team doesn't know what's coming. Not even Tristan. They don't know what Command has planned for this kingdom in the coming weeks, or what we've done to put things in motion. Grinning, I remember the whirring video camera. The words I said in front of it. Soon, the world will hear them.

I don't like the woods here. They're too still, too quiet, with the smell of ash still clinging to the air. Despite the living trees, this is a dead place.

“Nice time for a walk.”

My pistol jams against his temple before I have time to think. Somehow, Barrow doesn't flinch. He only raises his palms in mock surrender.

“You're a special kind of stupid,” I say.

He chuckles. “Must be, since I keep wandering back to your ragtag rebel club.”

“
And
you're late.”

“I prefer
chronologically challenged.
”

With a humorless scoff, I holster the gun, but keep my hand on it. I narrow my eyes at him. Usually his uniform is turned inside out for camouflage, but this time he hasn't bothered. His jacket is red as blood, dark and worn. He sticks out against the greenery.

“I've got two spotters waiting on you.”

“They must not be very good.” Again, that smile. Another would think Shade Barrow was warm, open, always laughing. But there's a chill beneath all that. An iron cold. “I came the usual way.”

Sneering, I pat his jacket. “Did you now?”

There
. His eyes flash, chips of frozen amber. Shade Barrow has secrets of his own. Just like everyone else.

“Let me tell my crew you're here,” I press on, taking a step back from Barrow's lean form. His eyes follow my movements, quietly assessing. He's only nineteen, little more than a year into his military service, but his training certainly stuck.

“You mean tell your watchdog.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. “His name is Tristan.”

“Tristan, right. Ginger hair, permanently glued to his rifle.” Barrow gives me my space, but follows all the same as I pick back toward the farmhouse. “Funny, I never expected to find a Southie embedded with you.”

“Southie?” My voice doesn't quaver, despite Barrow's not-so-vague probing.

His pace quickens, until he's almost stepping on my heels. I fight
the urge to kick back into his knee. “He's from Piedmont. Has to be, with his drawl. Not that it's much of a secret. Just like the rest of your bunch. All Lakelanders, yeah?”

I glance over my shoulder. “What gave you that idea?”

“And you're from the deep north, I suppose. Farther than our maps go,” he presses on. I get the feeling he enjoys this, like a puzzle. “You're in for some fun come true summer, when the days run long and thick with heat. Nothing like a week of storm clouds that never break, and air that threatens to drown.”

“No wonder you're not a trench soldier,” I say as we reach the door. “There's no need for a poet on the front lines.”

The bastard actually
winks
at me. “Well, we can't all be brutes.”

In spite of Tristan's many warnings, I follow Barrow unarmed. If I'm caught in Corvium, I can plead as a simple Red Nortan in the wrong place at the wrong time. But not if I'm carrying my Lakelander pistol or a well-worn hunting knife. Then it'll be execution on the spot, not only for bearing arms without permission, but for being a Lakelander to boot. They'd probably slap me in front of a whisper for good measure, and that is the worst fate of all.

While most cities sprawl, with smaller towns and neighborhoods ringing round their walls and boundaries, Corvium stands alone. Barrow stops just before the end of the tree line, looking north at the cleared landscape around a hill. My eyes scan over the fortress city, noting anything of use. I've pored over the stolen maps of Corvium, but seeing it with my own eyes is something else entirely.

Black granite walls, spiked with gleaming iron, as well as other “weapons” to be harnessed by Silver abilities. Green vines thick as columns coil up the dozen or so watchtowers, a moat of dark water fed
by piping rings the entire city, and strange mirrors dot between the metal prongs fanging the parapets. For Silver shadows, I assume, to concentrate their ability to harness light. And of course, there are more traditional weapons to take stock of. The oil-dark watchtowers bristle with grounded heavy guns, artillery ready to fire on any- and everything in the vicinity. And behind the walls, the buildings rise high, made tall by the cramped space. They too are black, tipped in gold and silver, a shadow beneath brightest sunlight. According to the maps, the city itself is organized like a wheel, with roads like spokes, all branching from the central square used to muster armies and stage executions.

The Iron Road marches straight through the city, from east to west. The western Road is quiet. No marching this late in the afternoon. But the eastern Road bustles with transports, most of them Silver-issue, carrying blue-blushing nobles and officers away from the fortress. The last, the slowest, is a Red delivery convoy returning to the markets of Rocasta, the nearest supply city. It consists of servants in wheeled transports, in horse-drawn carts, even on foot, all making the twenty-five-mile journey only to return again in a few days. I fish the spyglass from my jacket and hold it to my eye, following the ragged train.

A dozen transports, as many carts, maybe thirty Reds walking. All slow, keeping pace with each other. It'll take them at least nine hours to get where they're going. A waste of manpower, but I doubt they mind. Delivering uniforms is safer than wearing them. As I watch, the last of the convoy leaves the eastern gate.

“The Prayer Gate,” Barrow mutters.

“Hmm?”

He taps my glass, then points. “We call it the Prayer Gate. As you enter, you pray to leave. As you leave, you pray never to return.”

I can't help but scoff. “I didn't know Norta found religion.” He only
shakes his head. “Then who do you pray to?”

“No one, I guess. Just words, at the end of it all.”

Somehow, in the shadow of Corvium, Shade Barrow's eyes find a bit of warmth.

“You get me in that gate, I'll teach you a prayer of my own.”
Rise, Red as the Dawn
. Annoying as Barrow might be, I have a sneaking feeling he'll be Scarlet soon enough.

He tips his head, watching me as keenly as I watch him. “Deal.”

“Although I don't see how you plan to do it. Our best chance was that convoy, but unfortunately you're—what did you say? Chronologically challenged?”

“No one's perfect, not even me,” he replies with a shit-eating grin. “But I said I'd get you inside today, and I mean what I say. Eventually.”

I look him up and down, gauging his manner. I do not trust Barrow. It's not in me to truly trust anyone.
But risk is part of the game
. “Are you going to get me shot?”

His grin widens. “I guess you'll have to find out.”

“Well then, how do we do this?”

To my surprise, he extends a long-fingered hand. I stare at it, confused.
Does he mean to skip up to the gates like a pair of giggling children?
Frowning, I cross my arms and turn my back.

“Well, let's get moving—”

A curtain of black blots my vision as Barrow slips a scarf over my eyes.

I would scream if I could, signaling to Tristan following us from a quarter mile away. But the air is suddenly crushed from my lungs and everything seems to shrink. I feel nothing but the tightening world and the warm bulk of Barrow's chest against my back. Time spins, everything falls. The ground tips beneath my feet.

I hit concrete hard, enough to rattle an already rattling brain. The blindfold slips off, not that it does me much good. My vision spots, black against something darker, all of it still spinning. I have to shut my eyes again to convince myself I'm not spinning with it.

My hands scrabble against something slick and cold—hopefully water—as I try to push myself back up. Instead, I fall backward, and force my eyes open to find blue, dank darkness. The spots recede, slow at first, then all at once.

“What the f—!”

I turn onto my knees, throwing up everything in my belly.

Barrow's hand finds my back, rubbing what he assumes are soothing circles. But his touch makes my skin crawl. I spit, finished retching, and force myself to uneasy feet, if only to get away from him.

He puts out a hand to steady me but I smack it away, wishing I'd kept my knife.

“Don't touch me,” I snarl. “What was that? What happened?
Where am I?
”

“Careful, you're turning into a philosopher.”

I spit acidic bile at his feet. “Barrow!” I hiss.

He sighs, annoyed as a schoolteacher. “I took you through the pipe tunnels. There's a few in the tree line. Had to keep you blinded, of course. Can't let all my secrets go for free.”

“Pipes my ass. We were standing outside a minute ago. Nothing moves that fast.”

Barrow tries his best to smother a grin. “You hit your head,” he says after a long moment. “Passed out on the slide down.”

That would explain the vomiting.
Concussion
. Yet I've never felt so alert. All the pain and nausea of the last few seconds are suddenly gone. Gingerly, I feel along my skull, searching for a bump or a tender spot.
But there's nothing at all.

He watches my examination with strangely focused attention. “Or do you think you ended up a half mile away, beneath the fortress of Corvium, some other way?”

“No, I suppose not.”

As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I realize we're in a supply cellar. Abandoned or forgotten, judging by the dust on the empty shelves and the inch of standing water on the floor. I avoid looking at the fresh pile of sick.

“Here, put these on.” He fishes a grimy bundle of cloth from somewhere in the dark, carefully hidden but easy to find. It sails my way, colliding with my chest in a puff of dust and odor.

“Wonderful,” I mutter, unfolding it to find a regulation uniform. It's well worn, patched and stained with who-knows-what. The insignia is simple, a single white bar outlined in black. An infantry soldier, enlisted.
A walking corpse
. “Whose body did you swipe this off?”

The shock of cold sparks in him again, only for a moment. “It'll fit. That's all you need to worry about.”

“Very well.”

I shrug out of my jacket without much fanfare, then peel off my battered pants and shirt in succession. My undergarments are nothing special, mismatched and thankfully clean, but Barrow stares anyway, his mouth open a little.

“Catching flies, Barrow?” I taunt as I pull on the uniform trousers. In the dim light, they look red and battered as rusted pipes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, turning his head, then his body. As if I care about privacy. I smirk at the blush spreading up his neck.

“I didn't think soldiers were so embarrassed by the female form,” I press on as I zip myself into the uniform top. It's snug but fits well
enough. Obviously meant for someone shorter, with narrower shoulders.

He whips back around. The flush has reached his cheeks. It makes him seem younger.
No
, I realize.
It makes him seem his age
. “I didn't know Lakelanders were so free with them.”

I flash him a smile as cold as his eyes. “I'm Scarlet Guard, boy. We have worse things to worry about than naked flesh.”

Something trembles between us. A current of air maybe, or perhaps the ache of my head injury finally coming back.
That must be it
.

Then Barrow laughs.

“What?”

“You remind me of my sister.”

It's my turn to grin. “You spy on her a lot, do you?”

He doesn't flinch at the jab, letting it glance past. “In your manner, Farley. Your ways. You think the same.”

“She must be a bright girl.”

“She certainly thinks so.”

“Very funny.”

“I think you two would be great friends.” Then he tips his head, pausing a second. “Or you might kill each other.”

For the second time in as many minutes, I reluctantly touch Barrow. This is not so gentle as his hands on my back. Instead, I punch him lightly on the arm. “Let's get moving,” I tell him. “I don't fancy standing around in a dead woman's clothes.”

    
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

    
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED

    
—Captain, return to orders. COMMAND won't stand for this. —RAM—

    
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

    
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED

    
Day 29 of Operation SHIELDWALL, Stage 2.

    
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.

    
Designation: RAM.

    
Origin: REDACTED.

    
Destination: DRUMMER at REDACTED.

    
-No contact from LAMB in 2 days.

    
-Request permission to intercept.

    
-SHIELDWALL ahead of schedule. Island #3 operational but transit problematic. More boats needed than previously thought.

    
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.

    
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

    
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED

    
Operative: General REDACTED.

    
Designation: DRUMMER.

    
Origin: COMMAND at REDACTED.

    
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.

    
-Permission to intercept granted, will relay further info re. her location.

    
-Use force if necessary. She was your suggestion and your mistake if things continue.