The Assassin's Curse Read Online Free Page B

other side
of her tree, not on wheels but on treads. It maneuvered easily over
rocks and roots, and its saw came out as well. Twin buzzes filled
the air, and Amaranthe tried not to feel like a raccoon treed by
hounds—hounds that could cut down her safe haven.
    She looked around, trying to find another
tree she might jump to, but she had not chosen her perch well. It
would take a miraculous leap to make it into the nearest
branches.
    Already her tree was wobbling beneath the
double assault. Amaranthe touched her crossbow, but did not bother
removing it. Poisoned tips or not, what could little quarrels do
against these things?
    “Got to try something ,” she
muttered.
    Amaranthe studied the steam-powered machines,
noting their boilers and—she craned her neck—yes, there were
furnaces on the back ends of the carapaces. Would the doors be
locked or could she open them?
    With one arm wrapped about her tree, holding
on for her life, she fished in her pocket and came up with the
fist-sized cartridge from the boat. She hoped her guess as to its
contents was right.
    Amaranthe leaped out of the tree, twisting in
the air to land facing the back of one of her metal attackers. She
grabbed at the latch on the furnace door. Hot metal seared her
hand, but she ripped the door open anyway.
    The saw pulled away from the tree, and the
machine started to turn. Amaranthe thrust the cartridge into the
door and ran in the opposite direction. She only made it two steps
before an explosion boomed into the night. She dove into the
undergrowth and covered her head.
    Shrapnel pelted the trees, and debris rained
onto her back. Not daring to stay prone for long, Amaranthe
scrambled to her feet. The explosion had destroyed the first
machine, but the second was already recovering. A hitch in one of
its treads made it wobble, but it still pursued her with
determination.
    When Amaranthe tried to back up, she smacked
into a towering boulder. The machine drew near, and its circular
saw extended, whirring closer.
    She darted sideways, but her foot found a
hole instead of solid earth, and she sank to her knee, nearly
snapping her ankle as she pitched sideways. Growling, she tried to
extract her foot, but roots like hands grasped at her.
    “Curse this slagging island!” she snarled, no
longer caring about the noise she made.
    She finally yanked her foot free, but another
root tripped her up, and she fell onto her back. Something
snapped—her crossbow. It was the least of her worries.
    The metal beast lunged forward like an attack
dog. The spinning blade rose, the steel gleaming beneath the
moonlight.
    A dark form dropped out of the trees, landing
on the machine’s carapace. A man. Sicarius?
    He lifted his arms, and Amaranthe glimpsed
his black dagger, the inky blade not reflecting the moonlight at
all. He drove the weapon downward with all his power.
    Before she could tell if it pierced the metal
hull, he leaped over the spinning saw to land next to her. He
grabbed her as if she were a toddler, hefting her from the ground,
and jumped out of the machine’s way.
    It did not veer to follow. It smashed into
the boulder, and teeth from its saw flew off, pattering into the
foliage about them.
    Amaranthe found the ground with her feet,
though Sicarius did not let her go. He faced her, gripping her by
both arms, and she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his
rapid breathing. Strange. With all his training, he was never out
of breath. Had he gotten so far ahead that he had to sprint all the
way back when he realized she needed assistance?
    “I appreciate the help,” she said
quietly.
    “I can’t stay here,” Sicarius whispered.
“He’s too strong.”
    The hairs stirred on Amaranthe’s neck again.
“Who is?”
    “Azon Amar.”
    “The dead assassin.” Amaranthe did not know
what else to say. She didn’t even know what he was
saying.
    “The dead warrior mage ,” Sicarius
said. “He was powerful in life, and some of that power lingers