Winterstrike Read Online Free Page B

stack – raw scratches and gaping mouths, mimicking injuries too severe not to be fatal, fading into scars and then blankness,
in endless permutation. A cold wind blew across my skin and involuntarily I shivered, causing the scattered documents to rustle. The play of wounds became more agitated. Alarmed, I looked up, to
see the ghost of the flayed warrior beckoning at me towards the end of the stack. I hesitated for a moment, weighing risks, then rose silently, muscles aching in protest, and crept towards it,
setting the antiscribe to closure as I did so in case of scanning devices.
    The ghost led me along a further row, into the shadows. There we waited, while the scissor-women presumably conversed and finally left, heading into the eastern wing of the library. I turned to
the ghost to thank it, but it had disappeared.
    A moment later, however, it was back. It stood over a small tangle of data cases and it was pointing downwards. I smiled. I didn’t see how it could possibly know what I was looking for,
but I knew a hint when I saw one. I sidled over to it and crouched down, scooping the data cases into my pack. They didn’t look anything special and a couple of them were scorched.
    ‘Well?’ I whispered, looking up at the warrior. ‘Do you approve?’ But the warrior’s face did not change. ‘I don’t think I should even be trusting
you,’ I added. The warrior’s only reply was to fade. Typical.
    I debated whether to leave, but the situation was too urgent. Keeping a watch out for the scissor-women, I collected a further assortment of documents, switching on the antiscribe at infrequent
intervals to avoid detection. I did not see the ghost again. Eventually, the sky above the ruined shell grew darker and I had to depart, stowing the handfuls of documentation away in my coat as I
did so. They rustled like dried leaves. Then I hurried back to the tenement to examine them more closely.
    The ghost might have given me a helping hand, but it wasn’t much of one. The data cases themselves were damaged beyond repair, unreadable, and if they’d once contained vital
information, it had been lost. Among the cases, however, I found something strange: a small round object like a vitrified egg, gleaming black as coal. The same size as my finger joint, it had a
hole through the centre. A memento of Caud, I thought, a souvenir. I considered stringing it on the chain around my neck that held my fake identity chips, but in the end I tied it onto a loose
thread in an inner pocket instead and forgetting about it, sought sleep.
    The knock on the door came in the early hours of the morning. I sat up in bed, heart pounding. No one good ever knocks at that time of night. The window led nowhere, and in any case was bolted
shut behind a grille. I switched on the antiscribe and broadcast the emergency code, just as there was a flash of ire-palm from the door lock and the door fell forward, blasted off its hinges. The
room filled with acrid smoke as the lock quickly began to melt. I held little hope of fighting my way out, but I swept one of the scissor-women off her feet and tackled the next. The razor-edged
scissors were at my throat within a second and I knew she wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. Wounds flickered across her face in a ghastly display of silent communication.
    ‘I’ll come quietly,’ I said. I raised my hands.
    They said nothing, but picked up the antiscribe and stashed it in a hold-all, then made a thorough search of the room. The woman who held the scissors at my throat looked into my face all the
while, unblinking. At last, she gestured. ‘Come.’ They bound my wrists and led me, stumbling, down the stairs.
    As we left the tenement and stepped out into the icy night, I saw the flayed warrior standing in the shadows. The scissor-woman who held the chain at my wrists shoved me forward.
    ‘What are you looking at?’ Her voice was harsh and guttural. I wondered how often she actually spoke