Rocks battered him from all sides. He clawed at them, trying to stay on top, but the moving pile dragged him off the ledge. He struck ground, and rocks pounded him into the earth. They smothered him, stealing light, and driving pain into his body from all sides.
He gasped, or tried to-it was as if a giant vise had clasped about his ribcage. What air he managed to suck in was hot, thick, and filled with dust. Fine powder coated his mouth, nostrils, and the back of his throat. It even seemed to paint the backs of his eyes. His body tried to cough, but agony ripped through him, and it came out as a whimper.
Had the others avoided the landslide? Or were they buried too? Were the constructs still harrying them?
Books tried to push up, but not a single rock budged. He might not even be pushing the right direction. What if he faced up or sideways instead of down?
He struggled to fight off panic, thoughts that he could die here. Buried alive.
Scratches sounded, echoing strangely inside his rock prison. They grew louder, and hope stirred in his breast. Another sound trickled through the rubble to him: voices. Books strained his ears.
“Books?” Amaranthe called.
Rocks shifted. A pinprick of light slanted into his black cocoon.
“Here,” he gasped.
More rocks moved away, and fingers brushed his face. Grateful tears slid down his cheeks.
“We’ve got you,” Amaranthe said.
“Is good?” he whispered. He wanted to ask a more intelligent question-or at least a grammatically correct one-but it hurt too much to talk.
“We’re fine,” Amaranthe said.
“ Fine?” came Maldynado’s voice. “I’m so covered with dirt and blood, I’d probably have to pay to get into a woman’s bed right now.”
“Maldynado is especially fine,” Amaranthe said. “As are the others. That last cannonball took out the support. I saw Sicarius’s expression and got out of the way. Akstyr was far enough from you to miss most of the rock fall. You, ah, chose an inopportune time to cause an explosion.”
“Oops,” Books whispered. He may have been premature in telling Amaranthe that “smart people” were on top of the ledge. Between Akstyr’s fiddling and his own work, they had caused most of the trouble.
“You did destroy all the constructs,” Amaranthe said.
“Good.”
“Though…” Amaranthe lifted the last of several rocks off his back. “While we appreciate your efforts, I think you might want to retire from heroic deeds. Bad things seem to happen to you as a result.”
“Library work is more my forte,” he agreed.
Thanks to their efforts, Books managed to crawl out and stagger to his feet. Or tried. Pain burst from his knee, and he gasped and reached out for support. He caught the nearest shoulder, realizing afterward it belonged to Sicarius. Fine dust coated his black clothes and smudged his jaw, and blood stained his blond hair.
“Sorry,” Books muttered, anticipating a glare-and the need to find a walking stick or someone else to lean on.
Sicarius looked at Basilard and jerked his chin toward Books. The two men draped Books’s arms over their shoulders. Amaranthe smiled and pointed to the tunnel exit.
Maldynado offered her an arm though Books was not sure if it was so he could support her or she could support him. Both perhaps. The group definitely needed a rest.
Maldynado pointed at the destroyed constructs, half of them buried by rubble. “Nice work, Booksie. Though you owe me powder and a new rifle.”
“You didn’t lose your rifle,” Akstyr said, taking up the rear.
“I know,” Maldynado said, “but it’s all bunged up, and that’s Books’s fault.”
“It’s still functional,” Amaranthe said.
“But scratched and dented. You don’t expect someone like me to run around with a weapon like that do you? I had it custom made. The inlay alone took a master engraver three days.”
“Maldynado?” Books said. “You’re an ass.”
“But sort of a lovable ass, right?”
“Like the odd dreadful in-law one gets when one marries,” Books said.
“So…you think of Maldynado as family?” Amaranthe smiled over her shoulder at him.
Books stumbled. Dear ancestors, did he?
Maldynado threw Books a wink.
Books eyed his and Amaranthe’s backs then glanced from side to side at his escorts. Basilard’s lips curved upward, and, while nothing would move Sicarius to smile, one of his eyebrows did arch slightly.
“Well, I…” Books thought of his long-dead father, a man he had barely known, a man who had always seemed to prefer spending time with his soldier friends to his nagging wife and a boy who loved words not swords. For the first time, Books thought he might, if not condone those choices, understand them. “My father used to say some families are made by shared blood and some families are made by spilled blood. I used to dismiss it as some pugilistic glorification of a combat unit, but I can see where spending enough time with the same folks, facing dangerous situations day in and day out, would tend to make one feel a familial kinship toward those comrades, even when they are people one wouldn’t normally choose to spend time with in casual, everyday life.”
“What did he say?” Maldynado whispered to Amaranthe. “I forgot to listen halfway through.”
Books sighed.
“He said he loves you all like brothers,” Amaranthe said, “and thanks for coming after him down here.”
“Oh,” Maldynado said. “Good.”
Books’s first thought was to dispute the preciseness of Amaranthe’s translation, but the approving nods of the other men made him pause. Maybe it was good to have a woman in the “family.”
A hollow, grinding noise came from the tunnel ahead.
“Please, not more fighting,” Books muttered.
Sicarius left Books for Basilard to support and stepped in front of Amaranthe, a throwing knife at the ready.
A rusty metal ore cart rolled around a bend, its iron wheels following the track down the center of the tunnel. If not for the fact it was moving, it would have appeared normal. No weapons or advanced features protruded from it.
The cart rolled to a stop a few paces in front of Sicarius.
“Maybe it’s here to give us a ride out,” Maldynado said.
“I wish,” Amaranthe said. “Let’s-”
“It feels like it’s been touched by…” Akstyr jogged past Sicarius to peer inside.
Amaranthe lifted a hand, as if to issue a warning, but Akstyr was already plucking something out.
“Just a piece of paper.” He pulled a single page out and checked both sides. “I can’t read this.”
Basilard stood straighter, as if he might also leave Books to take a look.
Not wanting to lose his support, Books waved a hand. “Bring it here. Maybe it’s in Mangdorian.”
Akstyr shrugged and headed their way. “If it’s secret Science stuff, you have to translate it for-”
Sicarius slipped the paper out of his hand as he passed. Books would not have noticed except Akstyr threw him a startled glance. Sicarius skimmed the note, crumpled it up, and pocketed it.
Basilard stiffened.
“A message?” Amaranthe asked.
A message? Who was down here except the dead shaman and what remained of his contraptions? Unless she thought Tarok had arranged for the note to be delivered before his death.
“It’s nothing,” Sicarius told Amaranthe.
Amaranthe lifted a shoulder. Too tired to argue, perhaps.
Sicarius turned a cool, assessing gaze toward Basilard, who did not quite keep the suspicion off his face as he returned it.
“We all ready to go back to the city?” Amaranthe asked, her words breaking the staring contest.
