Freetrick recoiled. The man had gray hair growing out of all the places on his head where hair shouldn't grow, and the face underneath looked like someone had chewed it out of concrete. Cynical eyes rolled over Freetrick. "So this is him, huh? Look at the nose on him. B-ha!" The head withdrew. "Swen! Get down here! Guests!"
"Wait!" Freetrick cried, pulling against the cushion, "Mr. Erni, help me! I'm being kidnapped!"
The Proctor ignored him. "An escort and everything? True words, this ain't like the old days. I remember when your bunch useta come down off the mountains with thunder and lightning shooting out your rears. And the Naobelites would rise up flaming to strike you out. Best striking show a man could watch." He was silent for a moment, "I don't suppose I can look forward to any fireworks any time soon, hmmm?"
"I could not possibly say," Mr. Skree's voice was a strip of mummy hide whistling in a natrum wind.
"Ah well." The old man shrugged, "'s not like I'll be up here long myself, anyway. Not no more. Or I figure so, anyway. Swen! Ah boy," Erni turned around as another figure jogged down the path, "Say hello to Mr. ssSkreekirkaakh. You remember him."
"Nice to…uh…see you again, sir," a voice mumbled in the accents of Between.
"Well," Erni clapped his hands with a sound like cracking walnuts, "I know you can't stay, no rest for the wicked." He cleared his nose with a sound like ruined plumbing, "if you'll see me inside, Mr. Skree, we can talk business. Swen, stay out here and guard the Ultimate Fiend. And," he squinted into the carriage, "is there anything you would like, young lady?"
"No, thank you," Bloodbyrn's voice floated from the darkness, "I believe I shall take this opportunity to indulge in another brief constitutional. I trust I shall be undisturbed?"
"Oh yes," Erni chuckled, "Nothing in these woods more dangerous than you, honey. 'Cept Skree of course, but he'll be with me."
"Indeed," she said. "Now be a good boy," the last comment was softer, and probably directed at Freetrick. Bloodbyrn patted him on the head, then opened the door on the far side of the carriage and slid out. There was a creak as she pulled something out of the compartment at the front of the vehicle, and then she was gone, and Freetrick was alone with the Naobelite border guard, Swen.
"Hey!" he said, "Um, Swen? Was that your name? Swen. Help me!"
"Sir?" Swen turned toward him. His hand strayed to the wheel-stone talisman on a strap around his neck.
"Hey, don't worry," said Freetrick. "I'm not a…" a what? A monster? A king of evil? He shook his head. "Listen to me. I'm being kidnapped!"
"I can see that you are." Swen pointed with the hand holding the wheel-stone. "You're being swallowed by your chair."
"These people are holding me against my will!"
"Well, they'd have to," Swen explained, "they are taking you into Skrea, sir."
Freetrick felt like weeping.
"Oh, sorry sir," said Swen, looking ashamed. He let go of his amulet and leaned forward to whisper. "It's just that we have to be careful up here on the border. Sometimes we have to let things slide by, to keep things on an even keel, you know?"
"But—"
"And anyway in this case we don't have any legal jurisdiction. Can't stop foreign emissaries from escorting their own king back to their own country, even if the king's tied up." He thought for a moment, "And the bosses in Byblos told us not to let you back into the RU, even if they let you go."
"But I'm not—wait a minute. How do you know they think I'm their king?"
Swen shrugged, "Well, you match the description pretty well, sir—uh, that is, your Malevolence."
"What description?"
"The Covenant between Good and Evil, of course. You should probably get a copy," the Proctor pulled a little black-bound book out of a pocket. " Let's see…what was the part"
He moved closer to the red light coming through the carriage window, and flipped through the papers. " Uhhh…aha. 'And black will be the night when the Lord of Shadows, he who will shatter the foundations of the world, shall come forth to the mountains. Chains shall gird him, and he shall cling unto them and wail piteously…even in a manner unbecoming of a man…"
Freetrick closed his eyes and tried to summon control.
"Uh, it goes on," Swen dragged his finger down the page "…Good and Evil be forgotten...the Center of the Storm is the Sword..." He looked up, "You might want to get your own copy." He turned back to his notes. "…okay: 'And he shall speak, "But I am not the king," and they shall answer, "But thou art. In thy moon hair, and in thy night sky eyes, in thy cruel claws, yea, in all thy sinews we can see the mark of the Great Dark One who hangs over us."
"I'm not their king, okay?" Freetrick hissed. "I don't have the sinews of a great hanging anything. I'm just me!"
"Hmm…" Swen considered him, "that…does sound like piteous wailing."
"Somebody help me!"
"And the screeching—"
"Does that book tell you," said Freetrick, "where I am going to shove it when I get free and come back to this border station looking for you?"
Swen flipped a page.
"Yes," he said.
Freetrick stared at his supposed-savior with disgust. Was that going to be his last conversation in civilization?
"Swen." He said.
"Yeah? What?" Swen turned to look back at him, wheel-stone around his neck swinging.
"Just one thing." Freetrick lowered his voice.
The Naobelite leaned close to hear him.
"Naobel!" Freetrick shouted, and the wheel-stone exploded in holy fire.
It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of boiling water at his head.
Freetrick gasped in pain, but around him, the Futon howled. The terrible light from the Protector God lanced through the screen of the carriage, destroying every Skrean thing it touched. Even as Swen fumbled to get the amulet under control, Freetrick was shoving at the shivering folds of the Futon. He kicked his way free and then drove his shoulder into the door. Swen shouted as Freetrick tumbled out of the carriage.
"Hey! You can't do that! Stop!"
But Freetrick was on top of the Betweener, flailing with arms and legs. He managed to kick Swen's reaching right arm, but then the left curled around his neck. Freetrick kicked out, but couldn't get enough leverage to break the guard's hold.
"Give up!" Swen shouted.
"Never!" Freetrick hissed, black mist boiling off his skin. Was that a sizzle from the other man's clothing? Now, there was an idea. "Let go of me!" Freetrick dragged his head around in Swen's headlock and spit on the border guard's exposed forearm. The spit was black, and it clung to the skin like tar.
Swen let go, stumbling backward, scrabbling at his arm, the front of his uniform steaming where it had touched Freetrick's corrosive body.
"Yes!" Freetrick wobbled, then got his feet firmly planted in the ground. "I'm leaving. Stay down, Swen, or I'll---"
Swen's fingers closed around his wheel-stone. "Naobel."
A beam of roiling light slapped Freetrick across the face.
Swen was advancing, talisman held out. "Naobel!"
Another burst of light, a bass bellow from the ogre under the carriage, and Freetrick was on his knees, his skin on fire, blinded.
Pounding footsteps as the others rushed toward them. Bloodbyrn had her poisons and leashes ready. Mr. Skree had his claws and teeth. Erni had his gun. None of them were needed.
"Get out of here," said Swen, his talisman straining on its strap toward Freetrick, "get back in your carriage. And go home, Malevolence."
And Freetrick, held at bay before the holy talisman, did so.
***
Bloodbyrn waited, watching over her lord until the lines around his eyes eased and his breathing slowed. Then she, too, finally relaxed.
Outside, deep night had fallen; the burning Rationalist sun had relinquished its grip on the sky, and the garish blues and whites of the alien territory had dimmed to a much more tolerable black. Her lord's servant, Skree, was curled into a slee
ping cocoon-shape, dangling from one of the rear eves of the carriage roof. The only sounds were the comforting screams of the carriage's ogre porter as it moved forward and a distant rumbling from ahead that might have been thunder.
The duchess-in-waiting of Macabre sighed and stretched against the padding of her seat. How unutterably relieving it was to be able to arch one's back without the eyes of that boy popping out at one. Now, with the Despot asleep, Bloodbyrn could behave as she liked, and never mind the tedious and disappointing business of aversion-training.
Bloodbyrn had rather looked forward to the chance to practice on the Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend, but to be called upon to do so every time she bent forward or breathed deeply had grown quickly tiresome. Not to mention the ease with which she had subdued him, which was nothing short of embarrassing.
In her privacy, Bloodbyrn allowed worry to crease her brow. Why had her new lord not defended himself when she struck him? Why had he not killed the Futon, ripped apart its constricting folds, and leapt upon her? Oh, it was clear she attracted the Despot's lusts, but for some reason the man refused to force himself on her. Yes, she had expected romance in the cursed Do-Gooder nations to be different, but not that different, surely. If the woman's first retaliation sent the man off, whimpering like a kicked goblin, how did the Do-Gooders have any sex at all?
Feerborg was a necromancer of Skrea, and the dark power had bonded to him, but the man himself could hardly be less prepossessing. How would he behave on the other side of the mountains? Could the new Despot of Skrea possess hidden depths under this exterior? Did Feerborg, too, hide his secret self from all around him? Or was he truly the spineless worm he appeared to be?
Oh! Bloodbyrn smote her knee with a metal-clad hand. Why must her life be so fraught with difficulty? But no. She dismissed the childish thought. What Skrean concubine had ever chosen her lord, after all?
Bloodbyrn looked at Feerborg. In sleep, he lost that cringing expression he so often affected when awake. Now with his heavy brows drawn in and his mouth tight under his keel of a nose, the Soon-to-be-Ultimate Fiend looked very much like Feerix. He shared his half brother's body too - the tapering torso, the muscles not large, but well defined, the look of strength and control. And the way he had moved, when not imprisoned had been like a duelist, or dancer: someone who at all times knew the arrangement and position of his body.
This Feerborg had displayed rather more control than Feerix, in actuality. And there was that look of thoughtfulness to the face that the prince lacked thoroughly. Of the two surviving sons of Wrothborg, Bloodbyrn had to admit she had found more attractive. If only Feerborg was not...no. One must not let first impressions guide one. One must be optimistic. One must be courageous.
Bloodbyrn turned with a silent snarl away from the sleeping form of her betrothed and pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the screen. What had she been expecting, after all? A malevolent overlord? A vicious psychopath? A man who might shatter her defenses, laugh cruelly in her face as he chained her to his iron bed? Oh, but what were those but girlish fantasies? Reality, when it came, could never have been so grand.
At least now, with her lord asleep, Bloodbyrn could unclasp the silver winged skull from the front of her gown, thereby removing several sources of pinching. Her arms rose and fell against the leather cushions, producing a thump that was the only sound in the carriage out of time with their ogre porter's constant shrieking. How tedious travel was! How she wished that she were home.
Not Castle Clouds-Gather, with its endless stone corridors, its mists, its ever-shifting tapestries of deceit and betrayal. Not the Ladies' Academy, with its switches and riding crops and uncomfortable underwear.
There was a place far east of the Skrean capital, near the great River Moat. There, in the endless fetid swamps of Sangboire, loomed the Sarcophagus DeMacabre, within whose walls were kept all of Bloodbyrn's hopes and happy memories. Her mother's face...
Foolishness. Bloodbyrn pinched herself in the ear. She was becoming maudlin with boredom. She had half a mind to awaken the Ultimate Fiend, perhaps traumatize him. Yes, some creative cruelty might at least distract her from bitter memory.
A breeze blew through the carriage. It was cold, but with a faint rank scent, like rain and thunder, dust and old blood. A scent from beyond the mountain peaks. And yes, there, outside, under the light of the garish moon, Bloodbyrn could see the outlines of the stone cairns erected by the local people of this place, irregular and black against the blue of the rocks and ground. The mountain folk had yet to replace the circular capping stones that Mr. Skree had so kindly removed on their way down this pass, but Bloodbyrn fancied she felt the tingling pressure this place's guardian deity against her skin, sensing her intentions, pushing her out of this country. She was only too happy to oblige.
Impatience. It was a childish emotion and Bloodbyrn chided herself for it. Were they not on the road home, with the Pass of Winds itself opening before them, even as she wallowed in melancholy? Soon they would be over the mountains, her powers returning. One more day, and they would be at Castle Clouds-Gather, this journey done, and she would be placed to rule the Kingdoms of Evil, first as First Concubine, and then, once she had brought certain schemes to fruition, as its queen.
Bloodbyrn's fingers clenched. Queen. Yes, by the vital fluid of the Blood God. But she was not so naïve as to think the un-marriage and the coronation would represent any sort of end of travail for her. Quite the opposite. As queen, Bloodbyrn would face assailants from all sides. She would be tested, egregiously tested, and quickly killed if found wanting.
Her persona could not waver. There could be no mistakes borne of self-indulgence.
Bloodbyrn thought of the rabbit in its box. The rabbit she had released into the woods near the border crossing. Her hands stroked the ruffles of her costume, wishing for the feeling of fur, warm and soft, covering a beating heart she could not bring herself to stop. Thank the blood of her ancestors she had found the strength to release the thing. Her tenderness fetish was a risk, a foolish risk, and a habit she could no longer indulge.
Again her mother's face swam up from the depths of Bloodbyrn's memory, its expression tender and loving as it could never be in public. Her mother had indulged a tenderness fetish as well, and observe the result. Bloodbyrn's hands clenched in her lap. She must endeavor to be as cruel and vicious as possible to her lord, so that no suspicion of love could stain their relationship.
In time, rain began to patter against the roof and sides of the carriage. They were nearing the peak, where Rationalist clouds released a final spate of moisture before being dragged across the mountains' edges and into the Skrean Maelstrom. Surely it could not be long now. The wind rose, and as it did, the Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend moved uneasily in his sleep.
Bloodbyrn closed her eyes against the chill, rainy breeze. She would of course do her duty when the time came; to that she had resigned herself. In fact, Bloodbyrn wondered if the time might come very soon, indeed. Skrean custom as well as her own plans demanded certain duties of a first concubine, and given what she had seen of him thus far, the new Despot could do little to prevent her from performing them.
Cruel fate, and cruel Goodness, for it had been The Rationalist Union that had done this to Feerborg. If the old Despot, may the blood never dry from his hands, had not allowed the babe's mother to escape across the Bulwarks…but such speculations were useless now. The Do-Gooders had done their insidious work on the boy; his upbringing could not be un-done. Skrea would tear him apart in months, even if she did not do so first.
As if in response to her thought, the rain intensified, bringing into the carriage the sweet puff of brimstone. Sleeping in the corner, Feerborg moaned and shivered. Bloodbyrn breathed deeply as she heard the rising moan of the storm. The pass was near.
Outside, though the rushing clouds had choked off the starlight, the storm lit the night with its own harsh illumination. Bolts of lightning zigzagged across the sky, tracing a spider-web b
etween the clouds. Even here on the border, where the power of necromancy ran thin and weak, the pull of the Maelstrom rent apart the very sky. Bloodbyrn could not help but feel elated at the thought, and rather optimistic. This was the power she was reaching out to seize, after all.
The smell of Skrea lay heavy on the air now, dry and dead as old bones, deep and dark as new nightmares. Thunder boomed, and rain narrowed the visible world to a dim circle around the carriage, walled by staggered lines of stacked stone. Here the cairns were taller, and either Mr. Skree had been less than thorough on their path down the mountain, or the Betweeners had already replaced the massive wheel-stones that topped them. Wind rushed through the holes in the stones, and its ululation rose weirdly to wash around the carriage, catching and pushing them onward.
Rain, driven horizontally by the wind, rattled against the side of the carriage and flew between the gaps of the screen to wet Bloodbyrn's face and chest. Before she could react, a flash of white light bloomed against the night outside. The pattern of the screen and the stark shapes of her hands seared themselves in negative against her eyes, and so Bloodbyrn's lids were already shut tight when the thunderclap struck. The carriage actually tilted, as if the air had taken on weight, and Bloodbyrn's ears rang like bells.
What was this violence? The Betweeners had no such power, surely, and even if they had, why direct it against the carriage now, as they were leaving their nation's cursed territory? Even as she wondered, another bolt flashed into existence between the sky and the earth next to the road, cracking the very rock of the mountain, shattering the towers of rock like a boot smashing a line of anthills. This was not the power of Naobel, she realized. This was a manifestation of the never-dwindling wrath of the First God himself, receiving his prodigal son.
Sheets of rain poured down, while thunder rolled like the sea overhead. The lightning, striking now to either side of the road, cast insane, incandescent shapes through the screen. Flash, and jagged rock gleamed wetly under stone rings, immense and howling in the tempest.
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