Bonesmith, page 11
It was a whip sword, a legendary ironsmith weapon she’d never thought to see in real life. The rippling iron cord was dotted with pieces of the blade, several of which were digging into her ankle. The only reason she hadn’t been sliced to ribbons was because of her bone-armored boot.
As she looked down at it, the ironsmith flicked his wrist, and the whip wrapped itself tighter and tighter, cutting off her circulation.
With a look of satisfaction on his face, he took slow, measured steps toward her. Wren, however, was more concerned with the arrow that was surely moments from sailing her way. She turned her back to him, pulling herself with her arms, the lip of the dark chasm just out of reach….
With a hard tug, the ironsmith dragged her backward, and Wren knew she’d need to find a different strategy. She rolled onto her back to look up at him. Hesitantly, she raised her hands. She abhorred the idea of it, but maybe surrender would save her life… or maybe she’d forfeited it when she’d thrown herself at this ironsmith in the first place.
A smile tugged at his mouth, but then Wren saw movement out of the corner of her eye.
Apparently uninterested in her surrender, the distant rider let his arrow fly.
It was as if time slowed, the air bending around the oncoming projectile as it barreled straight for her.
No. Not for her… the trajectory, the angle, it was all wrong. This arrow was meant for him. His back was to the others, and the ironsmith had no idea he was about to be shot. No matter how impressive his armor, there were always gaps—and who would know them better than one of his own?
Though he didn’t see it coming, he did see her expression. He turned, but he was too slow—the arrow too fast.
It thunked into the top of his chest, and the impact sent his body careening back toward the mouth of the chasm Wren had been desperately seeking. The chasm that, as the ironsmith fell, she was pulled inextricably into, the whip still tightly coiled around her leg.
She struggled—but it was pointless. She had only enough time to gasp in surprise as her body slid after him, dragged into the abyss.
TWELVE
There was nothing to grab hold of, nothing to stop their sudden, desperate fall—until there was.
Wren’s heart lurched into her throat, only to slam back down into her stomach as she landed on a hard, rocky surface. The impact rattled her bones, her head ringing, and it took a second for her to understand where she was and who was with her.
The ironsmith had landed first, but his body lay unmoving as she struggled to sit up.
It was dark all around, the smoky gray light from above only just illuminating his prone form, the iron plates glinting dully. Beyond… nothing but emptiness.
They’d landed on a ledge, and Wren didn’t want to know how deep this crevasse went beneath it, how much farther there might be to fall.
Especially as the ironsmith currently teetered near the edge. Wren shuffled nearer to him, afraid any sudden movement might cause the shelf to give way or his body to slide beyond her reach and drag her down with him.
She needed to move him. Fast.
She tugged at the iron coil around her leg, trying to unravel it—but the segments had twisted and locked together. Cursing, she reached for the ironsmith’s arm instead, tugging him toward her.
He made a mumbled protestation—proving he was dazed but not wholly unconscious. Or dead. But he was out of it enough not to realize the danger he was in.
The closer he got, the better Wren could see that the arrow had landed in his breastplate, right below his collarbone—but there wasn’t any blood. Ironsmith armor was stronger than anything they could make in the Dominions, and whatever that rider used to tip his arrow, it wasn’t able to punch all the way through.
The ironsmith would have a wicked bruise, but his heart still beat in his chest, and his blood still pumped through his veins.
As she dragged him toward her and the wall of the crevasse, where she assumed the ledge was more stable, the distant rumble of horse hooves echoed down, and she looked up, realizing how exposed they were. If that archer came to check his work, if he and his companion peered over the edge—which Wren suspected they were about to do—they’d see that she and the ironsmith had survived. Then it would simply be a matter of a couple more well-placed arrows, and they’d finish the job.
But looking over her shoulder, she saw that the wall behind her was steeply angled, providing a substantial recess—and perfect hiding place, if she could get them to it. From above, it would appear as though they’d continued to fall past this stony ledge, down, down, into the dark. The kidnappers would have no choice but to assume the worst—that both Wren and the ironsmith were dead, as they had intended.
Why they had intended it was a mystery she didn’t have time to dwell on. The ironsmith weighed a metric shit-ton, technically speaking, his body lax and his iron armor and weapons like weights strapped to his skin. She only managed to move him at all because the ground sloped inward, allowing gravity to help. It was thanks to his own magic that he was able to move and fight under such heavy materials. The law of ratios was never much of an issue with bonesmiths, but ironsmiths monitored the equation with mathematical precision.
Wren pulled with everything she had, gritting her teeth and using her legs for leverage, despite the searing pain lancing through her ankle, jostling the ironsmith roughly as she dragged his body across the ground.
The pounding hooves stopped, and muffled voices reached them. Panic spiked Wren’s adrenaline. One more good pull, and she was inside the recess. Another, and he joined her.
She was just grabbing him by his breastplate to ensure his entire body was out of sight when his eyes snapped open, and he shoved her away, his metal clanking.
But the voices were clearer now, their words distinguishable, and Wren did not have time for this.
With one hand she took hold of the arrow shaft and pushed, temporarily robbing the ironsmith of breath as she helpfully reminded him of his wound. Then her other hand clapped over his mouth, ensuring that when he could inhale again, he didn’t exhale in a shout.
His eyes flashed dangerously, and he struggled against her hold—until the sound of the voices above penetrated his anger.
“… can’t see a thing,” one of them said.
“Look harder,” the second snapped back. “The others are already retreating. The fort’s soldiers will be here any minute.”
“You got him. What does it matter if we have the body?”
At those words, the ironsmith went motionless.
“I want to make sure the job is done.”
“Look how dark it is. The fall is a hundred feet at least—no one’s surviving that, especially not with an arrow in their throat.”
Wren glanced down at the ironsmith. That slightly missed target—coupled with his powerful armor—had saved his life.
It seemed he knew that too. His expression was unreadable, but he’d stopped resisting her. Still, she didn’t dare remove her hand.
“And what about the girl?”
“Even without an arrow, I doubt she’s fared any better.”
The other man cursed, and Wren thought maybe he kicked something, because a rainfall of pebbles clattered down around them.
“Come on, we’ll figure out the rest on the road. Let’s move.”
There was a whinny, the jangle of a saddle, and then the steady roll of hooves galloping away.
Silence descended.
One breath, two, then the ironsmith batted her hand away.
Even that small movement seemed to cause him pain. He gritted his teeth, sweat dotting his brow as he closed his eyes, collecting himself.
After several panting breaths, he stared down at his chest.
Wren remained crouched beside him, on high alert despite the rough shape he was in. She watched closely, aware of every movement as he reached toward the wound. Wren thought he intended to yank the arrow out, but instead, he rested his hand on his breastplate next to the puncture. Nothing happened, though she could sense he was straining. He kept holding his breath, then releasing it in heavy gusts of frustration before, on his third attempt, the dented metal reshaped and spat the arrow out.
There was no evidence the plate had ever been punctured, yet the arrowhead that landed on the ground next to Wren was flattened at the tip. It was black in color, like all ironsmith metal, but was surely of a lesser grade than what the ironsmiths used for their armor. If she remembered correctly, ironsmiths didn’t construct any weapons for sale or wide distribution that could puncture their own plate. The ironsmith warrior must always reign supreme.
That done, the ironsmith attempted to pull himself into a seated position, but his arm caught on the whip sword wrapped around Wren’s leg. She was shocked he still held the weapon, even after being unconscious, but perhaps it was more ironsmith magic. After a moment’s hesitation, he tugged, and the whip lost its tension. Wren freed her leg from the knot, and then he flicked his wrist, the whip retracting to the hilt, fluid and snakelike, before becoming solid and snapping back into the shape of a blade.
His shoulders sagged before he pushed himself upright, leaving the weapon on the ground. He leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest. He needed to remove the breastplate if he wanted to survey the damage, but Wren knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t do it with her there.
The quiet pressed in on them. Moments before, they’d been trying to kill each other, and now they were trapped here on this narrow ledge. Wren’s only chance of escape would come in the form of the Breachfort soldiers, but the ironsmith? He’d need to collect his strength and maybe try to extend that whip into something he could climb.
She reached out a tentative hand to the blade, wanting to touch it, to understand—
“Don’t,” he snapped, but he wasn’t looking at her. It seemed he could sense it.
“Why do they want you dead?” she asked. She figured she might as well, as they were currently stuck here together, and it seemed relevant.
He shook his head but didn’t speak. He continued to rub at his chest.
“Because they definitely shot that arrow at you. I thought it was coming for me, but I was on the ground, and it was way off target. Actually, if it weren’t for your stupid whip, I’d still be up there, and—”
“Shut up,” he said tiredly, pressing black-gloved fingers to his temples. He sighed. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“No shit,” Wren said, and he shot her an icy glare, his dark eyes stark against the bonedust on his face.
She ignored him, focusing instead on trying to massage away the pain in her ankle and calf. No doubt she’d have welts on her skin, but for now she wanted to make sure the limb could bear her weight. She got to her feet gingerly, and while her leg hurt, it was usable.
“He must be planning something on his own,” the ironsmith muttered, mostly to himself. “Unless he just wants the credit himself. He’s an ambitious man….”
“Who?” Wren asked. Standing, she took a chance to survey the rest of her damage, which was primarily surface. She had both her swords, though she’d lost a throwing knife. Her bandolier was stocked, her armor mostly intact, though it had taken a beating.
He hesitated. “Captain Royce.”
“Your own captain turned against you?” she asked, surprised. “You’re sure the order didn’t come from higher up…?”
And who would rank higher than an ironsmith soldier as talented as him? He was young, but he wielded his magic with power and finesse, and his whip sword was the kind of weapon she’d only heard fantastical tales about. But how had he been trained? All their masters, all their warriors, were supposed to have been wiped out.
“I’m sure,” he snapped, and Wren left it alone.
Craning her neck, she peered out the opening in the crevasse above, which rose nearly twenty feet overhead. It was late in the afternoon, pushing into the evening, but the smoke was thick in the sky, and clouds were rolling in, bringing an unnatural darkness. Distantly, horn calls and alarm bells were ringing from Wall sentries. Breachfort reinforcements were already on the way.
Surely they would find her… if the ironsmith didn’t kill her first.
When she looked down again, she realized he had been listening as well. His expression hardened, and Wren took a wary step back from the ledge; otherwise she’d be one good push away from a fall into the cavern below. He might be wounded, but he was still an ironsmith—lethal and powerful.
A voice, sudden and near at hand, rang out from somewhere above. “Prince Leopold! Highness! Are you there? Prince Leopold!”
Wren’s head snapped up, her lips parted, but then her back was slammed against the crevasse wall and a hand pressed over her mouth.
She threw a knee into the ironsmith’s groin region, but she suspected she’d aimed high, because while he grunted and cursed, he didn’t keel over. Pity. She went for his arms next, meaning to buckle his elbows and twist her face free, when a flash of iron reminded her that he was no ordinary adversary.
She knew the magic cost him when he was in this state, but it didn’t stop him. A blade sprang forward from beneath his vambrace, extending past the top of his hand, which he curled into a fist. She had no choice but to cease her squirming or impale herself on it.
“There’s no sign of him, Commander,” said another voice. It sounded faint, as if he were standing farther away than the prince’s captors had. Did they see the cavern’s mouth? Would they hear her if she cried out?
“The girl is missing as well,” said a third. “The bonesmith.” Wren struggled, to hell with the danger, but the ironsmith’s grip was firm.
“We must send riders,” said the first. “There’s a trail heading southeast.”
“We can try,” said Commander Duncan, his familiar voice grave. “But they know these parts, and they have a head start. We’ll be under attack as soon as we reach civilization—they have no love for the Breachfort garrison east of the Wall. There are also raiders and the undead to consider. You must write to the king and see if he will send aid.”
“By the time he does, it will be too late.” That voice definitely belonged to Galen, whose nasally timbre was as distinct as it was irritating. “Better to wait.”
“For what?”
“For their ransom. Surely that is why he was taken and not assassinated on the spot. They want something, these Breachsiders, and the prince’s life will ensure that they get it.”
Wren couldn’t believe her ears. They weren’t even going to try? The kidnappers had only just taken Leo away. A good horse and a fast rider could make up that time… but they didn’t know that. They didn’t know when he had been taken, or by how many, and even Wren couldn’t be sure. Perhaps there were dozens more waiting for a rendezvous.
She didn’t know… but he would. The ironsmith. He would know exactly who had taken Leo and where, and best of all?
They were the very same people who had just tried to kill him.
Wren let her body go slack, trying to tell him without words that she had no intention of fighting him again.
Of course, she could just be baiting him—that’s certainly what his suspicious expression suggested he believed—so his hand remained pressed firmly over her mouth, his vambrace blade still inches from her throat.
Above, the talk had turned to logistics and cleanup. They had to put out fires, deal with bodies, and contact the king. She thought again of Odile, who would soon be receiving the news of Wren’s disappearance. What would her report to Wren’s father say? Would they assume she was dead? Would Commander Duncan and the others say she had fought bravely and tried to save the prince? Or would they say nothing at all?
The murmured conversation and steady hoofbeats slowly faded away.
But the ironsmith continued to hold Wren immobile. He looked… lost. He was staring at her, but his attention was turned inward. Wren suspected he was trying to puzzle out some of the same things she had been, including how to get out of this cursed pit, but she didn’t have all night.
She had a prince to rescue.
She shifted impatiently, the movement causing the ironsmith to come back to himself. Darkness was slowly descending inside the cavern, obscuring the features of his face. She couldn’t see the decision he’d made, but one minute his whole body was pinning her to the wall, his hand over her mouth—and the next, he’d released her and stepped away.
He watched Wren warily as she straightened her clothes and pushed her hair out of her face. No doubt the eye black on her lips was smeared, but she had more pressing concerns.
“We need to get out of here,” she said.
“We?” he repeated flatly.
“You think you’re getting out of here without me?”
He looked up at the mouth of the cavern, then down at his whip sword. “Yes.”
Wren scowled. “Yeah? And how far will you get when you climb out of this place only to walk straight into a Breachfort patrol?”
His lips pulled back from his teeth. “I can handle your patrol.”
“Maybe before you attacked and kidnapped a prince. But now? They’ll be riding double, triple shifts. It won’t be a regular patrol. It’ll be a small army. And you’re wounded.”
He clenched his jaw and looked away. This was her chance.
“I know the protocols,” she said, taking a cautious step toward him. “I know who they’ll send and where. I can get us out of here.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “And where will you be going, bonesmith, if not back to your fort?”
She smiled. “After the prince, of course.”
THIRTEEN
It was all coming together in Wren’s mind.
Prince Leo needed rescuing, but the Breachfort didn’t have the resources or the information required to pull it off.
But Wren did.
Not only was she the best valkyr of her generation, failed trial be damned, but she was also standing with the one person who could tell her exactly where Leo was being taken—and probably even what route.
