Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(38)

“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.