Amaranthe’s lips flattened in a grim smile. One of the guards must have tried to grab the metal ladder with his bare hands.
Boots striking the rungs told her the men were coming up despite the discomfort. She abandoned the ore cart and took up a position at the top of the ladder, shovel raised over her shoulder.
One hand grabbed the top of the platform. She stomped on it with her heel. The man howled and let go but did not fall off the ladder. She swung the shovel. The metal head struck him in the nose. That time he let go.
He bounced off the railing and missed the catwalk, falling forty feet into the melee below. Three guards went down under him.
“What?” a voice protested in shock.
Amaranthe peered over the edge at the second man, who clung to the ladder, using his sleeves as protection from the hot metal rungs. He was still gawking at his comrade’s rapid descent.
Amaranthe hefted the shovel. “Didn’t your commander ever lecture you on the follies of assaulting a soldier with the high ground?”
The man refocused on her and threw a knife. Amaranthe jumped back, swinging up the shovel as a defense. The blade clanged off her tool, but the distraction gave the guard the time to climb to the top and lunge onto the platform with her.
Though she still had the shovel, it felt inadequate when the man yanked a double-headed axe off his back. The ringing of more boots on metal meant reinforcements were coming.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you men go to war while women mind the store?” The guard sneered and spun his axe.
Amaranthe retreated until her back bumped into the ore cart. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you there’s no point in fighting a war when your employer is dead?”
“We’ve already been paid, and we’ll collect twice when we ‘save’ the emperor and bring in Sicarius’s head.” He took a step forward.
Amaranthe glanced over the railing. “Looks like your friends are losing that fight.”
Actually, the brief look below told her little about who was wining. She did not even glimpse Sicarius, and only the seething chaos suggested he was still alive and fighting. Her words got the guard to look over the edge though.
She swung at the back of his head with the shovel.
His axe spun up and sliced through the wooden haft. The shovel head clattered onto the platform, leaving Amaranthe with a broken stick.
The guard lunged at her, axe raised for another swipe. She threw the haft at him and jumped into the ore cart. Her weight tipped it over the edge of the platform. She plunged down the steep track.
Too fast! was the only thought she had time for. Then she ran out of track.
The cart crashed into a solid bin, and she flew out. She bounced off a second bin, then smacked into the concrete floor. Her breath whooshed out, and black dots spun through her vision.
Disoriented, Amaranthe fumbled about and managed to rise to hands and knees. That’s when movement from the front door caught her eye. She squinted and struggled to focus.
Soldiers wearing the emperor’s black and gold were pouring inside. Her first reaction was to slump with relief, but then she went rigid. She and Sicarius had as much to worry about from soldiers as Larocka’s guards did. Maybe more.
She lunged to her feet and raced toward the blast furnace. She dodged track, pipes, and bins and darted into the open area she had seen from above. The first body almost tripped her. Downed men littered the floor amongst pools of blood. Where was…
The lone standing figure amongst the carnage, Sicarius grabbed an axe. Black shirt ravaged, blood spattering him from hair to boots, he looked like-he was -the harbinger of death. He stepped to Sespian’s side and lifted the dripping blade overhead to hack at the chains.
“Soldiers,” Amaranthe barked. “We have to get out of-”
The first of the men plunged into the opening. They almost tripped over the bodies, too, but that did not keep them from seeing Sespian.
“Sire!” one blurted.
“Stop!” another shouted to Sicarius. “Don’t hurt him!”
Arms raised, Sicarius hesitated. Less, Amaranthe guessed, because of the soldier’s command and more because he was wondering if Sespian was safe now.
“They’ll help him,” she said, wincing at Sicarius’s condemning pose. “We have to go.”
A musketeer shouldered his way forward, weapon rising to take aim.
Sicarius threw the axe at the approaching men, though awkwardly, not with the intent to kill. They ducked the flying blade, and the musketeer dropped his weapon.
Amaranthe waved for Sicarius to follow and led him to the back door.
“Get them!” someone yelled.
Sicarius passed Amaranthe and kicked open the locked door. With night’s darkness for cover, they raced through the scrapyard into the snow-draped city.
When Sicarius matched her pace instead of taking off on his own, she eyed him with hope. Was she forgiven? With the blood staining his blond hair and eyebrows, smearing his neck, and dripping from his chin, he appeared even grimmer than usual, but he met her questioning gaze. As the shouts faded behind them, he nodded and patted her on the back.
Epilogue
That afternoon, Amaranthe left the icehouse to find out what had happened to her men. On the way back, she picked up a few supplies and a newspaper. The front page story detailed the kidnapping, positing the “abhorrent and degenerate Sicarius” as the perpetrator of the “unconscionably heinous attack.” Amaranthe was mentioned at the end as an accomplice-no colorful adjectives for her.
She sighed. So much for getting her name cleared. At least the newspaper said Sespian had survived his injuries and was recovering.
When she returned to the icehouse, she found Sicarius still on the cot in the office. Not surprising after the previous night’s events. Her shoulder ached from the ore car crash, but, between the creature and the twenty guards, he had received a far worse battering than her. His eyes were open, though, and he had bathed and changed clothes. His gaze followed her into the room.
Not sure of his mood-they had not spoken more than two words since fleeing the smelter-she set the newspaper, a couple of straw hats, homespun shirts, and overalls on the desk. Remembering she still had Sicarius’s black dagger, she laid it on the pile of gear next to his cot. She imagined it happy to once again be nestled amongst the throwing knives, garrotes, poison vials, and other mortality-inducing appurtenances.
“You came back,” Sicarius said.
“Yes.” Amaranthe flipped over the empty chicken crate, sat before the stove, and regarded him. Had he thought she wouldn’t? Maybe he was looking forward to returning to a solitary life free of pestering womenfolk. “Guess I’m like a persistent toenail fungus, huh?”
“Hm.” Sicarius sat up on the cot and dropped his feet to the floor. His face betrayed no pain, but stiffness marked his movements. “A stray cat perhaps.”
“Adorable, loyal, and lovable?”
“Nosey, curious, and independent.” His eyes crinkled. “Not something you plan to bring home.”
Amaranthe found hope in his light tone. “But something you appreciate once it’s there?”
Sicarius stood, grabbed the desk chair, and dragged it over to the stove. He sat close, looked her in the eye, and said, “Yes.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then blushed and studied a whorl on a floorboard. It was silly she felt so pleased. It wasn’t as if he had admitted some undying love-ancestors’ eternal warts, he’d compared her to an alley cat. Still, she thought that yes might have also meant, “I’m sorry I lost my temper, and thanks for coming to
