Balanced on the Blade's Edge (Dragon Blood, Book 1) Page 6

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  Ridge walked through the mines, following a stocky infantry lieutenant for a guide, while two of his hulking soldiers trailed behind, each wearing enough armament to assault a fortress on his own. Ridge felt like a pansy for having bodyguards, but Captain Heriton had nearly pitched over sideways when his new commanding officer had suggested he would take a stroll on his own. After receiving a belated report about an attack on one of the lower levels that morning, Ridge had allowed the escort. Besides, his mind was more on the Cofah airship than this inspection. The craft had left without coming closer or doing anything else, but Ridge had a feeling it would be back. He knew a preliminary scouting mission when he saw it. He didn’t know how long they had been searching for the crystal mines, but now that they had found them, there would be trouble. It was no secret what powered the dragon fliers—and that there wasn’t an equivalent energy source out there. Maybe someday there would be, but not yet. And without the fliers… his people would have a hard time defending the continent against a superior naval force.

  Ridge had written a report, but there was nowhere to send it, not until the next supply ship came in two weeks. Someone had mentioned a pass over the mountains but that it was only accessible during the summer months. How helpful.

  “What’re they staring at?” the lieutenant muttered, looking back and forth uneasily.

  Ridge’s group was walking down a wide corridor, and a squad of miners was approaching from the opposite end, on their way off shift, their dirty clothes and weary faces implied. An armed soldier following the workers watched his flock carefully, not saluting—he held his rifle in both hands—but giving Ridge a respectful nod. The miners were staring at Ridge’s little troop.

  “It’s either me or you, Lieutenant,” he responded. “You tell me, am I the pretty one or are you?”

  The lieutenant cast a glum look over his shoulder. His nose had been broken a time or two in his career—or perhaps before it. “Definitely you, sir.”

  The miners slowed down, and a few muttered to each other. They wouldn’t think to attack him with so many armed men present, would they? All they had for weapons were pickaxes and shovels. Yes, those heavy picks could do damage, but only in close quarters. Of course, in the tunnel, Ridge’s group would have to pass within close quarters.

  “This is why the general never came down here,” the lieutenant muttered, resting a hand on the butt of his pistol. He must have read danger in the troop as well.

  The first miner, a scruffy bedraggled man wearing a bloodstained shirt and a bandana around his throat, stepped toward the center of the passage. He removed a sweat-stained cap, pressed it to his chest with one hand, and raised the other—it was devoid of picks or other weapons.

  “Colonel Zirkander, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes?” Ridge had only been in the fort for a few hours; he hadn’t realized the news of his arrival had preceded him down here.

  “I, uh, we want you to know… ” He waved at his grimy comrades. “We’ve heard about your fighting out there in the skies. Sometimes someone who can read catches hold of a newspaper, and there’s a former pilot down here that tells some stories about your early flights—he claims to have met you, but I’m not sure that’s the truth. Still, real entertaining stories. We appreciate them. And that you’re out there, fighting for our country.” The miner eyed the infantrymen, who had their fingers on the triggers of their rifles. “We just thought you should know.”

  It was a moment before Ridge could come up with an answer. He’d had the king’s subjects thank him for his service before, and received his share of hero worship from young pilots, but he hadn’t expected felons to care about their country or those defending it.

  Ridge stepped away from the lieutenant, met the man in the middle of the tunnel, and stuck out his hand. “Thank you… ”

  “One-fourteen,” the miner supplied, gripping his hand.

  Ridge raised his eyebrows. “And the name your mama gave you?”

  The miner blinked a few times. “Kal.”

  “Thank you, Kal.” Ridge walked down the line and shook more hands and got more names and numbers and was surprised at the shyness, considering all the broken noses and missing teeth in the group. “How’re you all being treated down here? Tough but fair? Getting enough food?”

  With the questions, he opened himself up to a volcano of grievances, but he listened without making too many promises. If the fort was attacked in the future, he needed these men—all of the men—to stay put in the mines and not make trouble. That would be asking a lot—he had been a prisoner of war once, and he had used the first diversion he could to escape—but Ridge might need to siphon more of his soldiers into defense.

  As he continued his tour, he crossed a lot of apathetic miners who didn’t care a yak’s back teats about the change of command or him, but he came across even more who knew who he was and seemed to think something special of it. He would use any advantage he could to win over the prisoners. He also found the “pilot” the first miner had mentioned. Ridge had never met him and through a few private questions learned the kid had been kicked out of the flight academy for fighting after three months. Not that surprising. These were all rough men. Ridge didn’t doubt for a moment that their deeds had rightfully earned them places here. Fortunately, none of them asked him for parole—he doubted he had the power to grant that even if he wanted to. When he asked what they did want, most of the requests were ridiculously simple, and he promised to look into them. If a rockslide table, a dartboard, and some pictures of near-naked women would improve morale, he had no problem acquiring them.

  A private caught up with Ridge and his entourage somewhere toward the end of the tour. “Sir? Someone was killed up top. You may want to look in on it.”

  “Show me,” Ridge said.

  How many deaths was that for the day? They were far too common here.

  Though nobody had made a threatening move toward Ridge, his escort followed him to the tram.

  “What sort of killing was this?” he asked the private as the cage creaked and groaned, heading for the fading light at the end of the passage. Twilight had either come, or the sky had darkened further with clouds.

  “A woman was hung for being a witch.”

  Ridge’s stomach lurched. The prisoner he had been talking with? Sardelle? She was out of place here, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with witchcraft. He had her pegged as a spy—if a poor one—or, more likely, someone who had sneaked in to try and get a crystal. One could be sold on the black market for a great deal. Or she might even be an academic who wanted a sample for research—the gods knew the military had a stranglehold on the crystals. He knew that university professors had come to the airbase before, with bags full of microscopes and tools, wanting to study them. Few had ever had a close up view, for neither the king nor the commandant wanted information getting out where the country’s enemies might pick it up. Perhaps Sardelle was one of those curious professors who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Or was it that he simply didn’t want her to be some hardened criminal who truly deserved to be here? It wasn’t as if a spy or a thief was much better. A thief… might be turned away with a moderate level of punishment, especially if she didn’t succeed in stealing anything. A spy though… Ridge closed his eyes. He would be forced to shoot a spy.

  A moot point if she had already been hung, he reminded himself with another lurch to his stomach. “Do you know the name—number—of the woman who was hung?”

  “No, sir,” the private said.

  Ridge resisted the urge to describe her for the private. The cage was nearing the top of its ride, the darkening sky visible in earnest now. All around the fortress, the pathway and rampart lanterns had been lit, though they did little to drive back the encroaching night. It was definitely snowing, thick swirling flakes that would make visibility difficult for anyone flying. Good. He hoped the airship would be forced out of the mountains and into
skies where it would be spotted and shot down.

  “This way, sir.” The private opened the cage and walked into the snow. “It’s in the women’s barracks.”

  Ridge strode after the private and found himself outpacing the man, then turning to crunch through the old snow in the courtyard rather than following the walkways—with fresh powder on the ground, they weren’t that cleared anymore anyway. He had found maps of the fortress and the mines before his tour and memorized them as well as he could. This was either a shortcut to the barracks or… he was heading for the munitions building. Either way, the private noticed he had lost his C.O. and jogged across the snow after him.

  Fortunately, Ridge’s memory proved accurate. He pushed open the front door and gave the traditional, “Male on the floor,” warning call, though the private’s furrowed brow made him think nobody here bothered. Maybe female prisoners were supposed to be used to random men walking into their sleeping and bathing building. From what he had skimmed of the operations manual, courtesies to inmates weren’t important enough to be mentioned.

  “Third door, sir,” the private said.

  Ridge could have guessed that by the knot of women standing outside, staring in, gesturing and speaking. Most had removed their heavy outer clothing and appeared to be off-shift for the night. Sardelle wasn’t among them.

  “Sergeant Benok gave orders that the body not be disturbed,” the private said.

  “Good,” Ridge said, though he wasn’t any sort of forensics expert. He certainly wasn’t a witchcraft expert.

  “Move aside,” the private barked to the women, despite the fact that they had already been doing so.

  Ridge gave them a more cordial, “Thank you, ladies,” though all he wanted to do was charge into the room to check…

  It wasn’t Sardelle. He told himself that his relief was uncalled for—someone was still dead, choked to death by a rope made from torn and braided linens, dangling from a water pipe crossing the ceiling. The woman’s head drooped forward, her snarled brown hair falling into her lean face. It didn’t quite hide the swollen lip and lump on the side of her cheek. She wore the heavy wool dress common to the female prisoners, and it covered most of her skin, but tattoos of knots and anchors crossed her knuckles, and more sailing-related artwork disappeared under her sleeves. The tip of one of her pinky fingers had been cut off at some point in her life, leaving a shiny pink stump. Her feet almost touched the floor, and Ridge guessed her six feet tall. This woman he would have believed was a pirate before ending up here.

  “Her name?” he asked of the observers.

  “Six-ten.”

  “Her name?” Ridge repeated.

  “Oh. Uhm.” The women glanced at each other.

  “Big Bretta,” someone said from the back of the crowd.

  “Thank you. Private, what led you, or your sergeant, to believe this hanging was a result of witchcraft?”

  “The sergeant found some things in her bunk… a collection of people’s hair and some crude dolls carved from scraps of wood. It looked like she got caught trying to put hexes on someone.”

  “She was on the shift with us in the kitchens this morning,” someone said in the crowd. “Then she didn’t show up this afternoon.”

  “I’m the one who found her,” another woman said. “Came in to collect the towels for washing and… ’bout screamed my head off. Then the soldiers came and took over.”

  “First one tried to say it was suicide,” came an indignant addition. “Big Bretta wasn’t that type. She used to defend us from the bas— those that thought they could walk in here and have their way.”

  “People don’t usually punch themselves in the face before committing suicide,” Ridge said. “Assuming nothing’s been moved, there’s no stool or ladder or anything she could have used to climb up there and drop either. Private, where’s the sergeant who sent you to find me? And who usually handles murder investigations?” Usually on an installation this small, Ridge wouldn’t expect there to be much crime—certainly not many murders—but given the background of his workforce, he supposed it was inevitable.

  “It was chow time so the sergeant went to dinner, sir. He said I could go too after I found you.” The private shrugged. “Nobody investigates murders of prisoners. Bodies just get put in the crematorium, same as those who die in mine accidents.”

  “How… efficient.”

  “Yes, sir. We would have done that with this one, but the sergeant said I should ask you on account of her maybe being a witch and maybe having done some evils before someone got her. Maybe she was even the one who called out and let that enemy ship know where the mines are.”

  At some point in the conversation, Ridge’s fingers had curled into a fist. He didn’t want to punch the private—not exactly—but he felt like punching something. On the one hand, he understood that these people were just numbers to those in charge, numbers who had already been assigned a death sentence for their crimes, but on the other hand, they were here—they had chosen this miserable life and were helping their country find the resources it needed to fight a war. Didn’t they deserve some respect for that? More, without those crystals, he never would have had a career, never could have flown. He owed them something surely.

  Wind railed at the shutters of the small high windows on the outside wall, stirring Ridge from his thoughts. “I want an investigation.”

  “Of the witchcraft, sir?”

  “I want to know who killed this woman.” Ridge smiled without humor. “Maybe I’ll let you stuff him in the crematorium.”

  “Him? How do you know it’s a him?”

  “As strong and capable as these ladies are—” Ridge waved toward the crowd, “—I doubt one of them hefted a six-foot-tall woman up and hung her from that pipe.”

  The private sucked on his cheek as he considered the dead woman. “All right, but, uhm, what if she was a witch, sir? It wouldn’t be right to punish someone for getting rid of one of them.”

  Ridge had yet to meet anyone with magical powers, witchy or otherwise, and had always suspected most of the people killed for that were innocent, but if this Big Bretta had been casting spells on people… He shrugged. “Maybe not, but that’s the point of an investigation. To determine the circumstances and to facilitate judging right and wrong.”

  “All right, but who, sir? Nobody here handles investigations, unless they’re about machines or mining accidents.”

  Ridge was tempted to lead it himself, but running the fort and mitigating the threats from without had to be a priority for him. He wasn’t qualified anyway. “We’ve got a doctor or at least a medic here, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Orsom.”

  “Start with him. I want an examination and to know what happened before she was strung up there. He can report his findings to me, and I’ll decide who to assign from there.”

  The private was scratching his head, wearing an I-don’t-see-the-point expression, but he said, “Yes, sir.” He trooped out of the building.

  For all that Ridge had rebelled against the rules imposed by his own superiors during his life, he had to admit there were times when it was nice to simply give orders, knowing they would be obeyed, rather than discussed in a committee.

  Ridge headed for the door as well. “We’ll leave her until the doctor has a look,” he told the women watching him, “then hold the funeral in the morning, if any of you want to say something before… ” He trailed off, in part because he didn’t know a euphemism for a cremation—burials, either at sea or in cemeteries, were more standard in the country—and in part because he spotted a new face at the back of the crowd.

  Sardelle. She was carrying a half-filled laundry basket, so she hadn’t been let off shift yet, but she must have stumbled onto the crowd and taken a look into the washroom. Her expression… Maybe because she was new here or less jaded than the others, she appeared stunned. No, horrified. And scared too.

  Ridge thought to say something, offer some reassurance, bu
t she was already backing away, her knuckles white where she gripped the laundry basket. She spun and raced out of the building.

  Ridge didn’t race after her—the private and all these female onlookers would find that odd or wonder if he suspected her of something—but he had been leaving anyway, so he strode down the hall at a good pace. He opened the door in time to get a blast of cold snow in his face, but also to see her dart into the laundry facility, a few buildings down. He had work to do, but he also felt this urge to go after her and comfort her somehow. Not that he had offered any hugs of condolence to the other women, women who had clearly known the victim. They hadn’t seemed to need it though. They had been indignant but not scared or horrified. Most likely, they had seen all too much of this type of situation before. Sardelle was… different.

  “Yeah, and that’s another problem you have, isn’t it?” Ridge muttered.

  The private walked out after him, giving him another curious look. Yes, your new commanding officer talks to himself. Move along, kid. Move along.

  The private shuffled off. Maybe Ridge was too eccentric for this job. At least he didn’t have to answer to anyone higher than him. As he considered everything that had happened in the few hours he had been here, everything that was now his responsibility, he wasn’t sure if that was the boon he might have once thought it.