The Assassin's Curse (3 page)

A muggy breeze whispered through, moaning
softly as it passed the rocky ravine that framed the riverhead
south of the island, like a breath blown over the lip of a bottle.
The noise stirred the hair on the back of her neck, or perhaps it
was simply the wildness of the island. The capital city, with its
population of one million, lay only a few miles away, but here...
It felt like they were hundreds of miles from civilization.

“Any thoughts on which way we should go?”
Amaranthe asked.

Heartbeats thumped past while she waited for
an answer. She touched Sicarius on the shoulder, and he stirred. He
bent and tugged on his own soft boots.

“Are you all right?” Amaranthe whispered.
“You’re even quieter than usual.”

“I must concentrate,” Sicarius said.

“On what?” She thought of the way Akstyr had
to utterly focus to access his mental powers. But Sicarius had
never trained in the Science, at least so far as she knew.

“I smell a campfire.” He pointed inland.

If there was smoke, the darkening sky hid
it.

Amaranthe waited a moment to see if he would
take the lead. He did not. Shrugging, she led the way up the beach,
though she paused to take a closer look at the shapes. She soon
wished she hadn’t.

Two human skeletons, meat long since picked
from the bones, faced each other on the rocks. One’s arms were
outstretched, hands locked around the other’s neck, or what
remained of it. The other skeleton gripped a dagger, the blade
thrust into his foe’s ribs.

“Fight to the death,” Amaranthe murmured. “It
happened a while ago, though. I’m surprised the bones weren’t torn
away by scavengers, but I suppose it’s mostly small game this close
to the city. Rats and carrion birds perhaps.” Talking about it in
that analytical tone helped to distance herself from the horror.
She had seen plenty of dead bodies in her life, but it made her
uneasy, wondering why these people might have killed each other.
Why visit Darkcrest Isle for a duel to the death?

“
Adon tsk zeel tu
,” Sicarius said.

“Uhm, what?” Amaranthe asked.

“What?”

“What did you just say?” Amaranthe asked.

“That we should get off the beach.”

“In what language?”

“Turgonian.” His voice rarely contained any
nuances that would hint of his thoughts or emotions, but he said
the word in a faintly puzzled tone, as if he thought
she
were the one who was crazy.

“Not unless it was some old dialect I’ve
never heard,” Amaranthe said.

A long moment passed before he said, “We
should complete this task and get off the island as soon as
possible.”

“On that we can agree.”

Amaranthe led the way along the beach,
looking for a place to turn inland. Bushes and brambles created
dense undergrowth amongst the evergreens, and she did not like the
idea of using her sword to hack a trail. That would be noisy going,
and she had hopes of catching the thieves unaware.

Amaranthe caught sight of the boat the
thieves had used and veered toward it. In the growing darkness, she
struggled to see details and ended up patting around the inside.
Maybe the thieves had left some of their purloined goods.

The bottom of the boat was mostly empty, but
she found two items. One felt like a rifle bullet, though longer
than she was familiar with. It must be one of the cartridges
Sicarius mentioned. The second object had a similar shape, but it
was bigger than her fist. Another cartridge but for a larger
weapon, perhaps? She dumped both into a cargo pocket on the side of
her trousers.

“We’d best assume they have loaded firearms.
Maybe cannons.” Amaranthe stood and turned, almost bumping into
Sicarius who loomed dark and silent behind her. “Want to see if you
can find their trail?”

He always seemed to have preternatural
skills, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he could track people at
night.

Without a word, he headed inland.

Crossbow in hand, Amaranthe followed. It
bothered her to admit it, even if only to herself, but she was not
certain she wanted him behind her at the moment. Something odd was
going on.

Sicarius found a game trail between the trees
and glided up a path. Bushes and branches choked it, but he
maneuvered through it soundlessly while Amaranthe struggled to push
through without making noise. It was almost as if he were an
ancestor spirit himself tonight. Strange and inscrutable. More so
than usual.

Amaranthe wiped sweat from her brow, and
wished the breeze rustling through the undergrowth would bring cool
air. It did not, but it did offer the scent of burning wood. The
campfire Sicarius had mentioned. It seemed strange that those
thieves would light a fire, something that could serve as a beacon.
Maybe it was a trap.

“Should we be going straight up the trail to
it?” Amaranthe whispered.

Only the wind answered her. She paused to
listen for rustling on the trail ahead, but there was nothing.

“Impossible man,” she muttered. Maybe he
intended to do the deed on his own. She was inclined to turn
thieves over to the magistrate rather than kill them, but for spies
stealing imperial technology, death would be the ultimate
punishment regardless.

A crack sounded, and Amaranthe dropped to the
ground. A gunshot? No, dozens of branches snapped and foliage
rattled. Almost too late, she realized it was a tree falling. She
scampered back as a breeze battered at her. The trunk crashed
across her path, less than two feet from her.

Heart pounding against her ribs, she gaped at
it. Only luck had kept one of its substantial branches from hitting
her.

Amaranthe swallowed, remembering another time
with Sicarius in the woods. A tree had nearly dropped on her, and
he had pulled her to safety. That had been during a fierce
wind-and-lightning storm though. This was a calm summer
evening.

She tore her gaze from the log and looked for
Sicarius. Surely he had heard that. Why hadn’t he come back to
check on her?

Because he’s not himself, a voice in the back
of her mind whispered.

Amaranthe put a foot on the log, intending to
climb over it and continue on, but soft clacks reached her ear, and
she paused. Now what?

“Sicarius?” she asked, then immediately felt
foolish for doing so. First off, he didn’t make noise. Second, if
he were going to make noise, it wouldn’t sound like a machine.

The clacks grew louder, rhythmic and
determined. Amaranthe struggled to pinpoint the source. The noise
seemed to come from the left and the right. Soft whirs joined the
clacks.

“Lantern,” she muttered to herself. “Should
have brought a lantern.”

A twig snapped to her left. Amaranthe
hesitated, not certain if it would be better to return to the beach
or continue forward. The fact that Sicarius should be up ahead
somewhere made the decision for her, and she hopped over the fallen
tree. The clacks faded as she pulled away from it, and she started
to let out a relieved breath, but the reprieve was short-lived.

The clacks resumed, louder this time.
Whatever was making them was on the trail now, following her.

A buzz sounded behind her, the sound
reminiscent of a saw in a steam-powered mill. Amaranthe picked up
the pace, twisting and weaving through the foliage, ducking
branches and navigating roots that seemed to reach out of the
ground, grasping at her feet. One snagged her, and she pitched
forward, barely keeping from tumbling to the ground. Her crossbow
smacked against a tree, and she winced at the noise, though the
sound seemed insignificant next to the whirs and clacks coming from
behind. She had little hope of sneaking up on the thieves now.

Amaranthe drew her sword and thought of
stopping and making a stand against whatever machinery followed
her, but she feared neither blade nor bow would be effective
against metal. And what if it was some sentient magical construct?
She had—

A crash sounded less than five feet behind
her. Branches snapped, and gears whirred.

Amaranthe found a break between trees and
darted off the path, hoping a machine would struggle to follow her
through dense undergrowth.

Thorns scraped at her bare arms, and brambles
sought to entangle her legs. A moon peeped over the rocky apex of
the island, bathing the woods with its silvery light. The buzz
sounded again, scarce meters behind Amaranthe.

If she had a moment to think, to see what she
was dealing with, maybe she could come up with something more
constructive than running. She strapped her crossbow over her
shoulder, lunged for the nearest tree, and climbed.

Something slammed into the trunk below her.
The tree trembled, its needles raining down upon Amaranthe.

Before she got a good look at her first
attacker, a second shape rolled out of the undergrowth, a round
bronze contraption that reminded her of a giant ladybug. With
pincers. And circular saws. Squat stacks sat on the backs of both,
belching black smoke, and filling the air with the scent of burning
wood. The things seemed Turgonian, but more than punchcards were
instructing them if they had followed her off the trail and—

A saw buzzed, biting into the trunk of her
tree. The force rattled her perch, and she dug her fingernails into
the bark to keep from falling out. With the machines below her, she
could see their metal carapaces more clearly. Black crests were
painted on their backs, images of an oilcan over crossed swords,
the symbol representing the army’s engineering division. So,
Turgonian contraptions after all. More of the army’s latest
technology. Unfortunately, she did not see how that information
helped her.

The second machine rolled to the other side
of her tree, not on wheels but on treads. It maneuvered easily over
rocks and roots, and its saw came out as well. Twin buzzes filled
the air, and Amaranthe tried not to feel like a raccoon treed by
hounds—hounds that could cut down her safe haven.

She looked around, trying to find another
tree she might jump to, but she had not chosen her perch well. It
would take a miraculous leap to make it into the nearest
branches.

Already her tree was wobbling beneath the
double assault. Amaranthe touched her crossbow, but did not bother
removing it. Poisoned tips or not, what could little quarrels do
against these things?

“Got to try
something
,” she
muttered.

Amaranthe studied the steam-powered machines,
noting their boilers and—she craned her neck—yes, there were
furnaces on the back ends of the carapaces. Would the doors be
locked or could she open them?

With one arm wrapped about her tree, holding
on for her life, she fished in her pocket and came up with the
fist-sized cartridge from the boat. She hoped her guess as to its
contents was right.

Amaranthe leaped out of the tree, twisting in
the air to land facing the back of one of her metal attackers. She
grabbed at the latch on the furnace door. Hot metal seared her
hand, but she ripped the door open anyway.

The saw pulled away from the tree, and the
machine started to turn. Amaranthe thrust the cartridge into the
door and ran in the opposite direction. She only made it two steps
before an explosion boomed into the night. She dove into the
undergrowth and covered her head.

Shrapnel pelted the trees, and debris rained
onto her back. Not daring to stay prone for long, Amaranthe
scrambled to her feet. The explosion had destroyed the first
machine, but the second was already recovering. A hitch in one of
its treads made it wobble, but it still pursued her with
determination.

When Amaranthe tried to back up, she smacked
into a towering boulder. The machine drew near, and its circular
saw extended, whirring closer.

She darted sideways, but her foot found a
hole instead of solid earth, and she sank to her knee, nearly
snapping her ankle as she pitched sideways. Growling, she tried to
extract her foot, but roots like hands grasped at her.

“Curse this slagging island!” she snarled, no
longer caring about the noise she made.

She finally yanked her foot free, but another
root tripped her up, and she fell onto her back. Something
snapped—her crossbow. It was the least of her worries.

The metal beast lunged forward like an attack
dog. The spinning blade rose, the steel gleaming beneath the
moonlight.

A dark form dropped out of the trees, landing
on the machine’s carapace. A man. Sicarius?

He lifted his arms, and Amaranthe glimpsed
his black dagger, the inky blade not reflecting the moonlight at
all. He drove the weapon downward with all his power.

Before she could tell if it pierced the metal
hull, he leaped over the spinning saw to land next to her. He
grabbed her as if she were a toddler, hefting her from the ground,
and jumped out of the machine’s way.

It did not veer to follow. It smashed into
the boulder, and teeth from its saw flew off, pattering into the
foliage about them.

Amaranthe found the ground with her feet,
though Sicarius did not let her go. He faced her, gripping her by
both arms, and she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his
rapid breathing. Strange. With all his training, he was never out
of breath. Had he gotten so far ahead that he had to sprint all the
way back when he realized she needed assistance?

“I appreciate the help,” she said
quietly.

“I can’t stay here,” Sicarius whispered.
“He’s too strong.”

The hairs stirred on Amaranthe’s neck again.
“Who is?”

“Azon Amar.”

“The dead assassin.” Amaranthe did not know
what else to say. She didn’t even know what
he
was
saying.

“The dead warrior
mage
,” Sicarius
said. “He was powerful in life, and some of that power lingers in
death. His spirit is here, restless and angry.”