Bonesmith, page 12
A small, two-person party could pass through the Breachlands unseen, not drawing attention like a mounted force from the fort would. Wren could handle whatever ghosts came their way, and this ironsmith could surely deal with anything living that might cross their path.
He would lead her to Leo, and she would rescue him. If she could do that, if she could save the Gold Prince from their enemies and return him safely to the Breachfort—traversing the dangerous and ghost-plagued Breachlands to do it—no one could deny her talent, her capability, and her right to a position within the House of Bone.
No one could deny that she was worthy.
It was perfect. Genius, even.
She just had to get this ironsmith to agree.
He continued to stare at her, uncomprehending, so Wren elaborated.
“Unless you intended to just roll over and die, you’ll want some answers from your comrades who tried to kill you.”
His eyes flashed dangerously, but he didn’t deny her words.
“And so you intend to follow them. I intend likewise.”
“Why?” he asked skeptically.
“That prince is my ticket out of this place,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the fort. “If I rescue him, I’ll be able to prove my value and get whatever posting I want. He is important, and so by getting him back, I will become important.”
He didn’t need to know that she liked Leo. That she had seen the fear in his eyes. That he had raised his flask in honor of their new friendship and that that made him her only one.
Except for Odile, maybe. But that was different. She was Wren’s superior. More like a teacher or mentor than a friend. Someone obligated to be around her, even if she’d been more open and honest with Wren than most others in her life. More than her own father.
The ironsmith, meanwhile, curled his lip at her words, as if he was judging her. Let him.
“And so I will get him back,” Wren insisted, “and you will help me, just like I helped you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“You helped me? Was that before or after you sliced open my leg?”
“After,” Wren said. “When we fell—your fault—and landed in this death trap, I dragged your lifeless corpse out of sight and stopped you from giving away our position.”
“If you hadn’t fallen too, you’d be dead by now. Captain Royce doesn’t like loose ends. The fact that you’re alive should be thanks enough.”
“I’d still like the words, though,” she said, unable to help herself. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for inadvertently saving my life,” she recited with as much earnestness as she could muster. Then she grinned. “See? Easy.”
He leaned forward, his words soft and cold when he spoke. “If you want a pat on the back for being a hero, give it to yourself. You’re clearly very good at it.”
Wren was annoyed. “Yes, I am,” she said with a cocky smirk. “Practice makes perfect, after all.”
“Is that what you think you are? Perfect?”
Wren opened her mouth to say something along the lines of “if the shoe fits,” but before she could, he pressed a gloved hand against her arm, in the gap beneath her pauldron. She reared back—first as a gut reaction to his touch and then, belatedly, because of a stab of pain. His black leather-clad fingers came away shiny with blood. When had that happened?
“Not quite,” he said softly.
Wren knocked his hand aside. “I’m not the only one losing blood,” she snapped, stalking away. She wiped at her arm, the stinging wound fairly shallow, if annoying.
“No,” he agreed, the ghost of a smile on his face. “But I never said I was perfect.”
Wren glared at him. “Are we doing this or not?”
His humor dissipated. “Doing what?” he asked.
“Rescuing the prince!”
“You do realize I was one of the kidnappers, right?” His tone was arrogant. Superior.
She glared at him. “Yes. And then those kidnappers tried to kill you. Maybe this whole thing was a lie—an excuse to target you.”
A spasm of anger crossed his face. “No. He wouldn’t—” He stopped himself. “They’ve obviously forsaken our orders. Or Captain Royce has, anyway. Maybe he’ll try to turn around and sell the prince to the highest bidder. He has to be stopped.”
“Exactly. So we’ll stop him. Take the prince for ourselves.”
“And then what?” he asked, brows raised.
“We’ll figure it out,” Wren said confidently. Of course what she meant was that she’d return Leo safely to the Breachfort whether the ironsmith liked it or not, but saying so would be counterproductive. “Would you rather him in the hands of a betrayer or the fort?”
“I’d rather him in my own hands.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that.”
He frowned, confused—then rolled his eyes.
“What happens after matters only if we actually get him,” she said placatingly. “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we reach it?”
He surveyed her closely. Wren tried not to squirm. “Fine,” he said, agreeing a little too readily in her opinion. The discussion likely wasn’t over, but they could pick it up later. “What’s the patrol schedule? How long do we have?”
Wren’s temporary flare of triumph flickered. She might have exaggerated her knowledge of Breachfort protocols post-attack. It made sense that they would increase their patrols, both in frequency and size, but it was hard to know what that would do to the existing schedule, or how it might play out over the following hours. They were still reeling from the attack, and they’d lost people in the fighting. Rosters would need to be adjusted, and new schedules made. There would be a certain degree of chaos as they wrote letters and sent runners north and south, relaying the news and ensuring the entire Wall was prepared in case of further attack—though surely they knew it was doubtful. The kidnappers had gotten what they’d come for.
She joined the ironsmith at the tip of the ledge and peered upward. Smoke was heavy in the dusky twilight, but the black of night wouldn’t be far off. They wouldn’t be able to see much, but they’d be able to hear it. The patrols usually didn’t ride beyond the road, but after an attack, they’d be ordered to check everywhere between the Wall and the palisade.
Wren would just have to wait and listen. Once one patrol passed, they’d have the time it took for them to return to the fort—and for a new patrol to ride back this way—to escape.
It was a small window, but it was their best chance.
“Not long,” she said, taking a seat along the edge so she could hear any activity above. “There’ll be a short gap between patrols.”
“How short?”
Wren shrugged. “We’ll need to climb quickly, then get past the palisade. Once we do that, we’ll be in the clear.” He also settled into a sitting position, his movements stiff and awkward as he favored his left side. “You will be able to climb, won’t you?”
He threw her a cold look. “Will you?”
“As long as that whip is strong enough, I’ll be good,” she said.
“It will be strong enough.”
They sat in silence after that.
Wren didn’t have much to do except listen, but the ironsmith took the opportunity to retract his vambrace blade and sheath his sword across his back. He checked the wound on his leg, courtesy of Wren, and rolled his shoulder near the chest wound, grimacing.
She found herself wondering again who this ironsmith was and where he had come from. Evidently, the House of Iron was not wiped out, whatever they believed in the Dominions. And someone in the ranks—or someone this ironsmith served—was making a move against the crown.
A distant, rhythmic noise reached her ears. It echoed around them, distorting the sound, but she was fairly certain…
“Hoofbeats,” the ironsmith said.
“Hide.” Wren hastened away from the edge to take cover in the recessed cave. The ironsmith followed her, silent as the grave, despite all the metal and weapons he wore.
It was harder to hear in their hiding place, but Wren could discern at least two mounted riders as they made their slow progress past the crevasse. She caught random words like “smoke” and “fire,” and for a moment the horse hooves paused, and she suspected the riders were peering down into this very space. Was there evidence of a scuffle nearby? Would they probe further?
But then the hooves picked up again, carrying them away.
The ironsmith remained in a crouch, poised for action, but he watched her, waiting for the go-ahead.
Wren itched to start climbing, but there was a chance the patrol was large enough to ride with forward and rear scouts. Sure enough, seconds before she was ready to throw caution to the wind and go for it, a larger group of riders could be heard moving past, followed several minutes later by another pair.
Finally, when those last hooves receded, Wren looked to the ironsmith. She nodded. “Now.”
They both rushed to the edge of the cliff, and she had to concede that he moved much better now that there was work to be done.
He withdrew his whip sword and transformed it in a snap, flicking his wrist down so the inner cable extended to the ground, the blade segments sliding out along its length. It coiled at his feet while he stared up at their target.
“Step back,” he ordered, and Wren did, watching as he flung it upward in a wide, shining arc. He wielded physical and magical strength, using his muscles to get things moving and relying on his magic to aim and guide the whip. It was a common tactic that Wren herself used, allowing a smith to preserve energy. Doing the same thing with magic alone would be exhausting, and he was in no state to push himself to the brink.
Though the whip reached the sky above and disappeared from view, it quickly slipped back down, failing to grab hold of anything.
The ironsmith’s eyes narrowed, and he tried again.
And again.
“There were some roots—” Wren began, but he quickly spoke over her.
“I know.” His voice was tight with suppressed frustration, and sweat dotted his temples.
Wren closed her mouth, waiting, until finally, on the fifth attempt, the whip caught and held. The ironsmith gave it a few hard tugs, then glanced over at her.
She stared at him blankly until she realized she should go first in case there were any lingering Breachfort soldiers about. It gave her the upper hand to a certain degree—she could try to push him off or betray him—but as they were climbing an iron-whip-turned-rope, Wren very much doubted she’d be able to do any such thing.
Not that she intended to. She needed him.
For now.
She approached, the ironsmith holding the handle loosely to keep the whip steady. While his hands were gloved, hers were bare, so she had to be extremely careful as she held the cable, avoiding the blades, though they provided handy footholds.
There was no time to hesitate, no time to worry if it could hold her weight. No time to wonder if it would slither around her throat and strangle her.
With both hands gripping just around head height, she nodded to the ironsmith, and he released his hold. She jumped, her arms taking her weight while her feet sought the nearest blade segment below.
She managed it without too much struggle, though it wasn’t the same as climbing the librarian’s shelves—or even climbing her own swords up that muddy grave in the Bonewood. Now she dangled over the chasm below, nothing holding her up but her own muscles and this strange iron whip.
Her breath started to come in short, sharp gasps, and her hands ached from holding too tight. Muscles she swore she’d never used before began to burn, her arms and chest trembling from the effort. But stubbornness won out, and she gritted her teeth as she climbed, feeling the shift when the ironsmith was on the whip beneath her. It swayed wide, causing her to curse vehemently, and continued to bump and jostle now that there were two of them.
She started to use the blade segments for her hands, too, finding a way to hold the inner seams while avoiding the outer edge. When she finally dared to look up, she realized they had not fallen as far as she’d thought. She was already near the top.
Once she got there, she saw that the whip had indeed been anchored to a tangle of roots she recalled seeing before they pitched over the edge. She looked around but saw no sign of any riders or torchlight. She tried to look up at the Wall, but the copse of trees blocked her view—which meant it also blocked their view of her, obscuring whatever the darkness didn’t.
They might just pull this off.
With one last burst of strength, motivated by the ironsmith coming up behind her, she crested the ridge, gasping.
He joined her soon after, but with a bit more dignity, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath before calling the whip up and reshaping it into a sword once more.
Wren got to her feet, peering into the darkness. Behind her, the fires had been put out, and she could just discern the outlines of the bone palisade in front, her magic sensing and filling in what her eyes missed.
Then she looked at the two of them. Her bone armor definitely stood out, paler than skin against the darkness, but it was nothing to all his iron. It reflected the scraps of moonlight that poked through the haze of smoke and cloud like flashes of sunlight on water.
But the time it would take to remove it—not to mention the risk that posed if they were found or pursued—would potentially put them in even greater danger.
Their eyes met, and Wren knew he saw what she saw.
They had only one option: run like hell.
Together they tore off for the bone palisade, stumbling over uneven ground and leaping rocks and debris as they loomed up out of the shadows.
Wren kept her senses sharp, the presence of the bones ahead keeping her on course. She glanced back only once, but everything behind her was darkness save for the lanterns atop the Wall, and they were dim and shrouded in smoke.
The palisade finally reared up before them, and they both slowed their pace, coming to rest behind one of the towering bone sentinels, using it as cover while they caught their breath.
Wren leaned against it, letting the familiarity of the material calm her racing heart. They had made it away unnoticed.
Now they just needed to find the Gold Prince.
FOURTEEN
After they’d both caught their breath, they started walking east, putting distance between themselves and Breachfort territory.
Once the palisade was no longer in sight, Wren looked to the ironsmith for what came next.
As he walked, he sheathed his whip sword and withdrew a staff instead, also strapped to his back. It was unremarkable-looking save for its unique color, which marked it as ironsmith-made.
Wren realized then that they hadn’t exactly introduced themselves. They’d gone from fighting each other to hiding together and now… whatever this was. A shaky alliance.
With an ironsmith.
Wren’s stomach twinged with unease. She would definitely need to fudge that detail when she told her father all about her heroic rescue of the prince. Luckily, she was a practiced liar.
Still, they would be allies for the foreseeable future.
“I’m Wren, by the way,” she said.
He seemed to have been lost in thought, because he startled when she spoke. His dark eyes flicked in her direction.
“And you are…?” she pressed when he remained silent. “I heard them talking to you—before they tried to kill you, that is. James? Jules…” His face spasmed at that. “If you don’t give me a name, I’ll be forced to make one up, and I suspect that will only cause things to further deteriorate between us.”
“Julian,” he said with exasperation. “My name is Julian.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. He shot her a glare. They had met under the worst circumstances imaginable.
With a shrug, she cast her gaze across the darkened landscape. There was less smoke out here, but fog had rolled in from the north, resulting in the same obscuring effect. She turned to Julian. “Now what? I assume you know what direction they traveled?”
“I know what direction they intended to travel, but as their plans have changed since then—namely with the attempt on my life—I don’t know if anything else has since been… adjusted.”
“Let’s assume their escape plans remain the same. They think you’re dead, so they have no reason to change them.”
His nostrils flared. “They will have gone south. They can’t risk any harm coming to the prince, and the coastal towns are the only places where they can safely stop for food and rest.”
“Then we head south,” Wren said, turning on her heel.
She had barely taken a step when a noise came from the hazy fog to her left. She froze.
They hadn’t been walking long, and Wren feared she had gotten turned around and somehow stumbled upon a patrol, though it made no sense this far from the palisade. There was movement in the darkness, and then a soft clip-clopping sound.
A horse materialized out of the shadows, making its casual way toward them. It was riderless but not dressed in any Breachfort tack.
Wren glanced at the ironsmith. Was it one of theirs? It could have taken off during the fighting, and his people either never saw where it went or didn’t bother to reclaim it.
It was exactly what they needed. Their targets were on horseback, and now Wren and Julian could be the same. It was perfect.
Too perfect?
But time was of the essence, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else around…
Wren stepped toward it, and Julian’s hand swiped at the air as he tried to stop her. “Wait. Don’t!”
“Why? What’s wrong?” she demanded.
He didn’t respond. Instead his head swiveled left and right.
“Come on! This is a lucky break, and we need to get moving.”
“This isn’t luck,” he said, before his gaze settled on something Wren couldn’t see. “It’s a trap.”
Wren heard it then—the clank and jangle of weapons.
Then out of the mist came ten, twenty people, lean and mean and raggedly dressed.
