Deathmaker (Dragon Blood) Page 2

  The footsteps returned in the hall. Out of time. She cursed under her breath.

  The guard glanced toward the doorway. Cas kicked the rock.

  It skittered across the room, banging him in the toe. Not much of an attack, but he looked down, and she leaped across the room. Her wounds protested the sudden movement, but her nerves flooded her limbs with fire to compensate. She grabbed the barrel of the rifle, trying to yank it free before he recovered.

  He snorted. His eyes met hers, and there wasn’t a glimmer of concern in them. He lunged at her, bowling her off her feet, and slammed her into the side wall so hard that it knocked her breath away. She tried to knee him, but he thrust her against the wall again, the back of her head thumping the stone this time. Blackness rimmed her vision, and dots of light floated through the air before her. She was vaguely aware of her feet dangling several inches off the ground.

  “Women make pathetic soldiers,” the guard said. “That you’re here is a sign of how desperate the Iskandians are.” He rammed her against the wall again.

  “That’s enough, Sergeant,” Cloak said from the hallway.

  He had returned, along with more guards, a lot more guards. And another man.

  Cas blinked, trying to clear her eyes. The man standing in the doorway, his hands shackled before him, appeared more warrior than scientist, with a hide vest leaving his muscular arms and part of his chest exposed. She had expected a crazy old man with spectacles or magnifying goggles and white hair sticking out in all directions. The figure in the doorway appeared to be about thirty, and his long black locks fell down his back in matted ropes. In contrast to the tangled hair, his mustache and goatee were trimmed, and his bronze Cofah skin was clean of grime, but nothing about the dark scowling eyes, the shark-tooth necklace, or the spiked leather wrist cuffs invited one to venture closer. Amazing that the guards had been able to get his shackles on over all that pointy metal.

  They were watching him now, far more warily than they had watched her. No less than four pistols were aimed at the pirate.

  “Deathmaker,” Cloak said, extending a hand toward Cas, who was still pinned by the guard. “Allow me to introduce your new roommate.”

  The guard stepped back, letting Cas drop to the floor. She braced herself against the wall. Her heart was beating a couple thousand times a minute, and she needed the stone for support. So much for her grand escape attempt.

  The pirate stared at her. Full darkness had fallen outside, and she doubted he could see much in the shadowy cell, but she didn’t see how that helped her.

  Out of some sense that she shouldn’t let him know she feared him or that he had any power over her whatsoever, she said, “How come you got to keep your trendy pirate clothes, and they forced me to put on this potato sack?”

  The prisoner turned his dark glower onto Cloak. If he found anything amusing about her question, it didn’t show on his face.

  “Ah, are introductions in order?” Cloak grabbed a lantern from the wall and hung it from a hook in the cell—Cas eased back into the shadows near the window again. “Deathmaker, this is the Iskandian, Lieutenant Ahn. From Wolf Squadron.”

  That got a reaction. The pirate’s nostrils flared, and his head jerked back toward her, his hair whipping about his face.

  Cloak waved to one of the guards. He stepped forward warily and unlocked the pirate’s shackles. The metal fell away, clanging to the stone floor. The pirate lunged inside, springing toward Cas like a lion taking down its prey.

  She could only take a step before her back smacked into the wall. She tried to duck and dodge away, but even in the darkness, he anticipated which way she would go and grabbed her. Much as the guard had done, he slammed her into the wall. Her already battered body betrayed her, and a gasp of pain slipped out. She wanted to fight, to spit curses if nothing else, but a calloused hand wrapped around her neck.

  Cloak’s dark chuckle came from the hallway, then the door thudded shut, leaving Cas along with the pirate. The hand about her neck tightened.

  Chapter 2

  Tolemek stood unmoving, his hand around the woman’s throat, listening for the footsteps to recede in the hallway. There was a guard still standing outside, he was sure of it, but Commandant Searson was leaving, along with his hairy-knuckled team of brutes. He didn’t know if they knew who he was—who he had been before becoming a pirate—but they had relished going over him with their cudgels either way.

  While he waited, he noted the window, the breeze stirring the muggy air, and the way he could see the prison’s rampart from the cell. That was good. If that kid came through, this might work out after all. Whoever his “roommate” was, this location was superior to the windowless holding cell he had originally been placed in.

  He was about to let go of the woman—though there was a big part of him that wouldn’t mind ridding the world of one of those cursed Iskandian fighter pilots, his attack had been a ruse to get the guards to leave him alone for the night—but she had recovered from the surprise of being grabbed. She twisted, trying to jam a knee into his groin. Hands clawed for his face. Fortunately, she wasn’t very tall, and his longer arms kept him out of her range.

  “Enough woman,” he said and released her. “Leave me be, and I’ll do the same for you.”

  He took a step back and waited in a fighting stance in case she came after him—she seemed livid enough to take on a pack of wolves barehanded—but she backed away, too, not stopping until her shoulder blades bumped the door.

  The commandant had left the lantern hanging on the wall, and the light illuminated the side of her head. Her short hair hung in wisps about what was likely a cute, impish face when it wasn’t bruised. She had endured at least one round with the guards and their cudgels too. Her swollen cheekbone, and the blood smearing her chin and upper lip made him feel guilty about manhandling her, show for the commandant or not. He reminded himself that she was an enemy. Her pale, freckled skin and red-blonde hair couldn’t be anything except Iskandian. If Searson was to be believed, she was a mortal enemy. She scarcely looked old enough to be out of her basic military training though. It was hard to imagine she had been on many flier runs. And just because Searson had said she was in Wolf Squadron didn’t mean she was; the commandant had clearly wanted to manipulate Tolemek into something. Something designed to hurt her? Or a trap for him? If he murdered some other prisoner, they might have an excuse to shoot him without a tribunal.

  He shook his head. He could muse upon it another time, after he escaped from this cell.

  He propped a boot on the stone bench and tore off the hem of one of his trouser legs. The material wasn’t bright, so he would have to trust that his helper out there was paying attention. He tied the strip around two iron bars in the window, making a cheerful bow.

  Tolemek sat on the bench to wait, his back against the wall. He pulled up a leg and propped his arm on his knee. Nothing except the woman’s eyes had moved. They were round and green. Innocent was the word that came to mind, and he wondered again at Searson’s assertion. A fighter pilot? Truly? And if so, how had she gotten onto Colonel Zirkander’s team? They didn’t have any rookies flying with them. After last summer, Tolemek could say that for certain. He rubbed scars on his lower back that still itched—three bullets had been extracted from his flesh. The doctor had sworn he should have died and proclaimed his organs the toughest in the outfit. Another dubious accolade that, for good or ill, added to his reputation.

  The girl—Ahn?—was considering the strip of cloth. She glanced at the lantern hanging beside her, and he wondered if she was thinking of burning his little flag. Well, she wouldn’t have much luck if she tried.

  “Got friends coming?” she asked softly, her Iskandian accent lilting, almost singsong to his Cofahre-born ears.

  He didn’t answer her. The last thing he needed was for her to alert the guard to the fact that he was trying to escape—and failing to menace her, as Searson had so clearly wanted. At least she had kept her voice low—it s
houldn’t be audible to the man standing in the hallway. He thought of keeping quiet, of saying nothing at all to her, but his curiosity got the best of him.

  “You really a fighter pilot?”

  It was more than curiosity that prompted the question; he wanted to know if he should let her go when he escaped, or make sure she stayed put in her cell. Though his loyalty to the Cofah had faded after his expulsion from the army, he still had family on the mainland. He worried from time to time that her people would one day shift their strategy from defensive to offensive. The size of the Iskandian army, and their population as a whole, might be laughable when compared to the empire’s, but with those fliers, they could dance circles around imperial dirigibles and easily engage in guerrilla attacks on the mainland.

  This time, the woman was the one who didn’t answer. Tolemek kept his amused snort to himself. There wouldn’t be much of a conversation if neither of them answered questions. It was just as well. The silence suited him. He looked at the starry sky beyond the window, listening for quick feet on the rampart that might not belong to the guards. At least he tried to. The howler monkeys made it difficult. They ought to be sleeping by now, surely? Maybe some predator out there had them roused.

  A soft clink sounded outside. A pebble thrown at the wall.

  Tolemek sprang to his feet, at the window in an instant. As soon as his face was pressed against the bars, a small irregularly shaped object lofted over the outer wall and sailed in his direction. Right away, he knew the trajectory was off. It wasn’t going to land anywhere near his window.

  He knew it would be in vain, but he stuck his arm out anyway. He would only get one chance.

  The small bundle struck the roof overhang twenty feet above. Tolemek stretched his arm out as far as he could, hoping luck would bless him, and he could catch it as it fell. The packet shifted, but caught on some crevice or drainpipe on the edge. He stared, disgusted. This was what he got for enlisting the aid of a twelve-year-old boy.

  A whistle blew on the rampart, then two guns fired. Monkey howls blasted from the jungle. Tolemek didn’t see the target, but the guards were aiming toward the rocks beneath the wall. He cursed and hoped the boy had been able to scramble away quickly or knew how to swim and had dived for the deep water beyond the rocks. The kid had known the risk of helping him, but he had volunteered anyway, his eyes gleaming at the promise of a silver round before and a gold one after, but Tolemek hadn’t expected the guards to shoot at a kid. That was the reason he had enlisted someone young instead of talking the captain’s men into helping. That and the fact that, should his mission prove fruitful, he didn’t want to share the find with any other pirates.

  “Problem?” the woman asked.

  Yes. “No,” he said and patted along the window ledge, hoping he might pull out some cracked piece of sandstone to use as a projectile.

  “There are some rocks on the floor.”

  He eyed her. She hadn’t moved, but had clearly deduced his problem from his wild lunges. Without saying anything, he patted around on the floor. He found a few chunks, then stuck his arm out the window again. Ridiculous angle, but he had to try.

  He threw the first rock. It clanged off the roof eave, several inches from the pouch. He grimaced at the noise, but the monkeys were still complaining about the gunshots, so he doubted anyone would hear it. Still, his grimace grew deeper as he tried three more times. The last time, the rock sailed past the pouch, six inches away. Curse the awkward angle—the bars made it impossible to make a decent throw, and he had limited ammunition.

  “Need help?” the woman asked.

  Tolemek snorted. “What are you going to do?”

  “Hit whatever you’re trying to hit, I imagine.”

  “Uh huh.” He knelt to grope around for more rocks. “Can you even reach the window?”

  “I’m not that short.”

  Though he was loath to waste even one rock, he wasn’t having much luck himself. And she sounded oddly confident. Maybe she had a secret rock-throwing skill. Who knew?

  Tolemek extended an arm toward her, a rock on his palm. She hesitated a moment before walking over, then visibly steeled herself before coming close enough to pluck it from his grasp. He wasn’t surprised. His attire choices were more about convincing bloodthirsty pirates to leave him alone than scaring off women, but they had a dual effect. He backed away, so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable with him breathing on her neck—or the top of her head. She was barely five feet tall. Didn’t the Iskandian army have height requirements?

  Rock in hand, she looked out the window and located her target. She had to stand on tiptoes to stick her arm between the bars. He snorted again. If the angle had been awkward for him…

  She stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and threw the rock upward. A second passed, and she jumped and flung her arm out as far as she could.

  Tolemek’s mouth dropped open as she caught his pouch and landed back on the floor. He recovered his usual grim expression before she turned in his direction and was ready when she tossed the sack to him.

  “You have dragon blood or something?” he asked.

  The flash of surprise—and horror—that crossed her face told him that suggesting such was as much of a faux pas in Iskandia as it was in Cofahre, maybe more so. He lifted a hand, his instincts urging an apology, but she spoke first.

  “I shoot things all day for the king. Hitting a target that close isn’t much of a challenge.” She strode to her spot against the door, folded her arms across her chest, and resumed watching him.

  “Even when you’re bleeding?”

  At some point, her nose had started trickling again. She must have felt it, but she only sniffed. “It’s not the first time.”

  These words were the admission she hadn’t voiced before, and Tolemek found himself starting to believe the commandant’s claim. Zirkander wasn’t his quest, not now, but he wouldn’t mind paying that man back for all the lives he had ended. And for the military career he had ruined.

  Tolemek splayed his fingers and looked down at his hand, a hand that had once held a sword for the Cofah army, a hand his father had once grasped with approval. If he brought one of Zirkander’s people back to the captain, maybe the Roaming Curse could use her to lead them to him. To set a trap for him. To kill him. Goroth loathed Zirkander even more than Tolemek did.

  He lifted his head and met the woman’s eyes. He didn’t smile—he didn’t want to be too obvious that he wanted something from her—and forced a casual disinterest into his tone as he hefted the bag in his other hand. “I know the layout of Dragon Spit, above ground and under. And I aim to escape. Want to come with me?”

  “Why’d you think I helped you with that pouch? I’m hoping you have something in it to handle the door.”

  “I was thinking beyond the door. I have a ship waiting in the harbor. You help me get what I’m looking for here, and I’ll get you off Cofahre.”

  “Sure, Deathmaker. Sure, I’ll hop right into your ship with you. With your chivalrous reputation, how could I go wrong?” While he was considering a response—his reputation might not be flattering, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with being unchivalrous toward ladies—she surprised him by shrugging and adding, “I will happily get out of this monkey-kissed dungeon with you.”

  He wasn’t surprised she didn’t embrace his offer wholeheartedly—even if she couldn’t guess at his ulterior motives, she had to be thinking that she would be, at best, trading one imprisonment for another—but it was good enough for now. He felt fairly certain she wouldn’t shoot him in the back at the first opportunity, not if she believed he knew a way out. It was after they stepped into the jungle that he would have to keep an eye on her, lest she slip away and he lose his chance to get Zirkander. But that was something to worry about later. He had a stop to make before leaving the ancient fortress.

  *

  Cas moved out of the way so the pirate could approach the door. He was untying his pouch and eye
ing the hinges.

  “You can call me Tolemek,” he said.

  Oh, first names? He was schmoozing her now, eh? She would use it, but only because Deathmaker was on the unwieldy side.

  “Ahn,” was all she gave him. Maybe it was too much, but Cloak had already spilled the beer all over the table. He knew who she was, and he had to be thinking the same way Cloak and his people were—that she was a route to the colonel. Let him think whatever he wanted, if he got her out of this prison.

  He glanced at her, but she couldn’t read his face. Probably because all that shaggy hair was hanging in front of it. What an animal. Wait, no, she had better not think of him like that. After all, Deathmaker was supposed to be a scientist, even if this man didn’t look the part, a scientist who made horrible, horrible disease-filled devices that could kill legions of innocent people.

  She leaned against the wall and watched him unwrap a couple of items from the pouch while wondering what kind of reward she might get for bringing him back to Iskandia in chains. Or maybe she could just bring his head. But decapitating people was gruesome, even by her standards. Growing up as her father’s student had somewhat inured her to death, but there were levels of beastliness that a human being should never descend to.

  Tolemek opened a glass vial with a glass stopper and used a slender brush to smear dark goop onto the hinges. He removed the lantern from the wall. “I have matches, but I might as well save them, since our guards were thoughtful enough to supply ambient lighting for our evening.”

  The casual tone and chatter didn’t fit in with his look or his reputation, so she assumed he was trying to win her over. Like a hunter laying salt out in the woods for the goodly deer to enjoy, all the while waiting with a rifle in the trees. Even if he wasn’t, she wasn’t going to be anywhere around when he beelined for whatever ship he had in the harbor. She would find a freighter and take her chances stowing away.