Another crossbow quarrel zipped into the flames.
The fiery curtain vanished. Books stood at Akstyr’s side, his rifle raised like a club. Akstyr was down on one knee, a hand clenched to his side. Books parried the wild swing of a desperate man whose clothes had been seared by fire. Akstyr stretched out a hand, probably trying to bring back the flames, but his teeth were gritted against whatever injury he’d sustained.
Sicarius meant to sprint the last few meters to fight back-to-back with them, but one of the men who’d been burned by the flames scrambled to his feet. He swung wildly at Sicarius. It might have been an attack or nothing more than pained flailing-he didn’t take the time to sort it out. He slammed his dagger into the top of the man’s skull. Leaving his blade there, he grabbed a pimple-faced youth who was trying to run around Books to get at Akstyr’s back. When the man saw him, he tried to pull away, but he stumbled on one of his fallen comrades. Sicarius didn’t bother drawing another knife. He yanked the thug toward him with one hand and slammed the palm of his other into his nose.
Books downed the second of the two people who’d evaded the flames and almost reached Akstyr. He gripped Akstyr’s arm. “Are you all right?”
Knowing that door was still open behind them, Sicarius didn’t relax. He spun, intending to run back and jam the bar back through the handle. Two more men stood at the top of the stairwell, both with crossbows raised.
A mistake, the analytical part of Sicarius’s mind acknowledged, you should have secured the door first. These thoughts came even as he lunged for one of the serrated blades in his boot-he’d spent all of the throwing knives in his arm sheath with the first attack. He never took his focus from the men, but they weren’t aiming at him; they didn’t even seem to see him. Their eyes, filled with some sort of zealous hatred, remained on Akstyr.
“Look out,” Sicarius warned in the same beat as he threw his knife. He reached for a second as soon as it spun from his fingers, but he knew he couldn’t hit both men before they fired.
The serrated blade wasn’t balanced for throwing, but it slashed across his target’s neck, slicing into the jugular before he loosed his shot. The second gang member, however, fired before Sicarius’s second knife left his fingers. Hoping the crossbow had missed, Sicarius glanced at his comrades.
Across the pile of fallen bodies from him, Books had lunged in front of Akstyr. Now he crumpled to the roof, his hand clutched to his chest.
“No!” Akstyr shouted.
Sicarius ran for the door. His knife had taken down the man who’d fired, but two more gang thugs were about to lunge out of the stairwell. They saw their death approaching in Sicarius’s eyes and stumbled backward. Sicarius yanked the door shut, grabbed the pipe he’d used earlier, and jammed it back through the handle.
“Akstyr?” came Amaranthe’s voice, an uncharacteristic quaver to it. “Is he…?”
After another check to make sure no climbers had gained the roof, Sicarius ran toward the group, though he slowed before he reached them. Books lay on his side, facing the door. He wasn’t moving.
Akstyr dropped down beside him, forgetting his own wound-blood saturated the side of his baggy brown shirt. Amaranthe rushed over, falling to her knees.
“Why’d he do that?” Akstyr whispered. “Why’d he step in front…?”
Amaranthe shook his shoulder. “Help him. You can heal him.”
Books’s eyes were locked open. It wasn’t his chest that he was clutching but a crossbow bolt sticking out of it. It was as if he’d meant to pull it out, but he hadn’t been able to. It wouldn’t have mattered. It’d struck his heart. He was already dead.
“I can’t,” Akstyr whispered. “It’s too late. He’s-”
“No, curse your ancestors.” Amaranthe grabbed both of Akstyr’s shoulders and shook him. “You healed me when I was dying. You can do it. All those books, you-” Her voice cracked, and she shook him again.
Akstyr threw a desperate look at Sicarius.
That stirred him to action. He stepped around Books’s body and grasped Amaranthe’s arms, trying to pull her away from Akstyr gently, but she wouldn’t relinquish her grip.
Sicarius made his own grip firmer. “We’ll all be dead if we don’t concentrate on the rest of the fight.”
Komitopis and Mahliki glanced in his and Amaranthe’s direction. They’d taken over her position and were helping Deret and another soldier onto the roof.
Sicarius released Amaranthe, trusting she’d gather herself, but he might need to take charge for a moment, at least until Starcrest joined them. He grabbed a couple of blasting sticks. With Books down, any inhibitions he might have had against blowing up gang brats was gone-such inhibitions would have been out of respect for Amaranthe’s wishes, not because he thought any of those thugs worth saving.
The remaining soldiers were climbing across the rope while Starcrest, standing beside Suan, waited for the last slot. Nobody was left guarding their trapdoor, a trapdoor the makarovi must still be banging at.
“Come,” Sicarius shouted.
Starcrest glanced at his giant unused trap, then squinted behind Sicarius. “What is your rope tied to?”
“Smoke vent.”
Starcrest shook his head once and held up two fingers. He must have made a mental calculation and was certain that was all the rope could hold safely. Sicarius didn’t know if they had time for safety though. People were spilling into the intersection below, and more thugs with ropes and grapples were running toward the warehouse walls. Others funneled into the first-floor doors.
As the last two soldiers climbed off, Sicarius waved again for Starcrest to go. He lit a blasting stick and threw it to the north of the intersection where a wave of reinforcements was coming in. He didn’t bother aiming where nobody was standing, as Amaranthe had done; he targeted a thick knot of people.
“Look out!” someone cried. They were pressed in too tightly for anyone to run.
Sicarius never would have thought the gangs would work this hard and risk this much for his head, million ranmyas or not. Though the chants that floated up continued to be, “Get the wizard, kill the wizard!” Through his own actions, Akstyr had riled them up into a furor.
Watching the wary slowness with which Suan climbed onto the rope was enough to make one start tearing hair out. Sicarius didn’t care if she plummeted, but Starcrest obviously did. He knelt, whispering what could only be encouragements. Since he’d taken the last position, he couldn’t cross until she did.
A crack sounded on the far rooftop, and bars clattered. The crate and whatever else the soldiers had shifted onto the trapdoor tipped off.
Makarovi paws appeared, grasping either side of the opening.
“Starcrest, go!” Sicarius barked.
Starcrest scarcely needed the order. He’d swung onto the rope as soon as the crack sounded behind him. Suan inched along ahead of him.
Too slow. If the makarovi was willing to throw itself from the roof to get to them…
Sicarius clenched his fist around a blasting stick. The first creature pulled itself the rest of the way through the trapdoor. A second head appeared behind it.
Sicarius dipped the fuse into the lantern flame. He backed a few steps, lining up a throw. Starcrest’s eyes widened. Yes, if Sicarius took out the part of the trap their rope was tied to, it’d be trouble for them. But being knocked from the rope by a makarovi would be trouble too.
“What are you doing?” Komitopis blurted.
Sicarius had to risk it. Better for them to fall a couple of stories than to be shredded to death in midair. He dodged Komitopis’s grasp, ran forward, and hurled the burning stick. It flew, toppling end over end through the air. He swore it moved even more slowly than the woman on the rope. The makarovi were lumbering creatures, but at that moment the lead one’s gait seemed to have the speed of an avalanche. It couldn’t have been more than ten feet from the edge, from leaping after Starcrest and its target, when the blasting stick bounced to the roof at its feet. The fuse was still burning down, and Sicarius believed it’d explode too late. He was about to lunge for a rifle, out of some vain notion of shooting the makarovi in the eye as it leaped from the roof, but the stick blew, right between the beast’s legs. He’d been expecting that all night-for one of the sticks to explode on impact-but it surprised him nonetheless.