The Borderkind v-2

by Christopher Golden

  Still the suspicion lingered in the officer’s eyes. He held out a hand. “The letters.”

  “Not on your life or mine,” Oliver replied gravely.

  No courier in service to the king would hand over letters bearing the royal seal to anyone but the king himself, or his servant in the presence of the king. Kitsune had spent several months at court-or rather, in bed with a king-though that had been a very long time ago. Oliver hoped that customs had not changed since, but he had faith in Kitsune. She was a trickster, after all. A cunning creature.

  The officer drew his sword.

  Metal singing, the other soldiers followed suit.

  The officer barked an order and there was a ruckus above their heads. Oliver glanced up, pulse racing, to see half a dozen archers leaning over the battlement and drawing their bowstrings back. The arrows were all aimed at his chest.

  “Now,” the officer commanded.

  Oliver put one hand on the leather saddlebag, the courier’s pouch. “I cannot place letters to the king into the hands of one of his subordinates unless in his own presence. If you’d kill me for loyalty to Hunyadi, then I suppose I shall die.”

  “You may at that, in a moment,” the officer said. He pointed to the bag with his sword. “Take out a letter, only one, and show me the seal. You will not have to surrender it to do so.”

  For a moment Oliver was at a loss what to do next. If he complied, would that be a breach of protocol? Kitsune had learned some of the court customs, but hardly all. By doing so, he might well be revealing himself. But it did seem a way to follow custom and still prove the provenance of the letters he carried.

  He took a breath and nodded. “Of course.”

  The long shadows performed a hideous pantomime of the events playing out there at the castle gates. The breeze was cool, though dusk was still a couple of hours away, and hinted at a night that would be chilly indeed. The life of the community of Otranto continued to unfold all around the castle, but here in this one spot it had come to a halt, as taut as the bowstrings of the king’s archers.

  Oliver unbuckled the pouch and reached in. When he withdrew a single letter, all of the soldiers tensed, prepared to fall upon him. At first only the face of the letter showed, but quickly he turned it over to show them the wax seal.

  They visibly relaxed. The officer shook his head and gestured to the bowmen to withdraw. From below, Oliver could hear the strange twang of bowstrings slowly being released, arrows being returned to their quivers.

  “You understand, courier, that these are strange times. Rumors are rampant of rebellion and some of the legendary conduct a crusade against their own kind. Nothing is to be taken for granted these days.”

  Oliver let out a long breath. He nodded, reassured by the knowledge that the king and his soldiers had far more to worry about than a single Intruder.

  “I do understand. Had I any other choice than to ride here without my uniform, trust that I would not have done so, if only to avoid such suspicion.”

  The officer gestured to the others and they stood aside to allow Oliver to ride through the open gates and the arched passageway of the gatehouse. Two remained outside on guard, but the officer and one other, a stout, broad-chested fellow whose nose was flattened and scarred, walked alongside the horse, escorting him onto the grounds of the castle of Otranto.

  A stable boy appeared, running to stand beside them, dutifully waiting for the horse to be turned over.

  Oliver climbed down from his mount, then reached up and slid the saddlebags from the horse. He slung them over his shoulder and patted the horse on the side before handing the reins over to the stable boy.

  “Take good care of the animal,” the officer told the lad. “It’s a long ride back to Perinthia.”

  Within the outer curtain walls of the castle, several young men worked at swordplay, parrying and dodging with a grace hard to achieve amongst those actually trying to kill one another. An old woman sat on a stone stoop outside a heavy wooden door off to one side, peeling potatoes and rattling off profanity at a cluster of pigeons who paraded nearby, pretending to be aloof while obviously expecting her to provide them with some kind of treat.

  The guards led him across the grounds toward a tall, arched doorway that showed a surprising hint of Moorish influence. The wall all around the door was covered with tiny tiles that created a mural image of a one-eyed warrior standing on the body of a fallen giant, and out of the giant’s flesh grew fruit trees. A naked, winged woman had plucked a yellow fruit from one of the trees and bit into it.

  Oliver stared at it, trying to decipher its meaning or connect it to a specific legend, but it seemed a strange melange of mythical elements.

  The scar-nosed guard went to the door and grasped an iron ring. He hauled the heavy door open, hinges shrieking. The officer nodded to Oliver to indicate that he should enter. Oliver glanced back across the grounds and saw that most of the archers on the battlements had vanished, though several still remained. Two stood talking to one another, but the others were watching him curiously.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  An old man dressed in midnight blue, with the seal of the king upon his breast, appeared suddenly in the doorway to block their entry. His face was so thin he looked inhuman, and adorned with a wisp of white beard.

  “What is it?” the old man said, brows knitted in consternation, lips pursed in disapproval.

  “Courier, Master Hy’Bor, with letters for the king.”

  The old man arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  A tremor of dread passed through Oliver. The old man, some advisor to the king or court, had a stare that felt as if he could see right through him.

  “Indeed,” Oliver said, inclining his head respectfully.

  The old man pointed a long finger at Oliver’s side. “That’s a fascinating sword, courier. An antique, if I am not mistaken. Indeed, I’d venture to say it is one of a kind.”

  Oliver held his breath, searching the man’s gaze. His eyes were the same midnight blue as his robes, but there was a luminescence there that was anything but human. What was he, if not a man?

  “What are you talking about, Atlantean?” the officer said, his voice not quite a sneer. Soldiers never liked interference from politicians, and that was clearly the case here.

  But… Atlantean?

  They were advisors to the kings-sorcerers and scholars-and they were supposed to be neutral. In another age they had brokered the peace between the Two Kingdoms, a third, objective party. But the Falconer had told Frost that Ty’Lis, an Atlantean, had sent the Myth Hunters after the Borderkind. So he had to wonder about Master Hy’Bor’s true loyalties.

  Later. If he lived.

  “It is unique. You’re right about that,” Oliver replied. “A gift to me from an old man. A gift he received a long time ago from King Hunyadi himself.”

  The Atlantean glanced at the officer. “You’ve made a dangerous mistake, Sergeant.”

  Oliver saw the moment of confusion and hesitation in the captain and he used it. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled, drawing his sword on the run. Shouts came from behind him.

  “Intruder! Kill him, you fools!” the sergeant roared, boots pounding the earth in pursuit. “Kill the Intruder! He comes to assassinate the king!”

  The words made Oliver wince. As if things hadn’t been bad enough already.

  The third and last Keen Keeng froze in the midst of Lycaon’s Kitchen. It began to back away from them, moving out into the restaurant’s central courtyard…into the rain.

  Cheval Bayard shifted back into the lovely facade she usually wore and advanced upon him.

  Chorti licked blood from his metal claws and came at the bat-man from another angle.

  Across the restaurant the Mazikeen stood and threw back their hoods, moving to surround the Keen Keeng.

  The waiter, Grin, stripped off the long, black uniform jacket Lycaon made his staff wear and joined Cheval.

  Blue Jay nodded in
approval and moved in as well.

  The rain began to swirl in a dark tornado, turning to ice, and then snow. The humans in the restaurant had scattered, retreating to safety as best they could. Now the tone of their mutterings changed as they watched Frost sculpt himself a body of jagged ice from the moisture in the air. There was awe there, and a different sort of alarm.

  Even in the Latin Quarter, word had come of the conspiracy against the Borderkind and the rebellion against those killers. But only now, as they saw Frost, did these people realize that they were in the midst of that rebellion. Blue Jay heard some of them talking about Frost as the leader of the Borderkind, and he wondered how news traveled so quickly. How secrets were so easily revealed.

  Not that it mattered. It was true enough.

  “How many others are there?” Frost demanded, moving toward the Keen Keeng. Blue Jay and the others did likewise, closing in around him. “You are no Hunter, so I want to know which Hunters are here in Perinthia. How close? And what other foot soldiers have they conscripted?”

  The Keen Keeng spat at Frost.

  With a gesture, the winter man froze the yellow spittle in the air and it fell to the marble floor to shatter into brittle shards.

  “If they are here,” a voice said, “there will be other spies. You know this without being told.”

  The words came from the little man with the flaming eyes. He strode now toward the circle they had made around the Keen Keeng. Pursing his lips, he whistled, and from the kitchen there came a roar. Everyone within the walls of the restaurant flinched and let out a gasp of surprise as a huge orange-and-black tiger bounded out from the back. It stalked across the restaurant, even the harpies scrambling out of its way, and brushed against the little man.

  He mounted it as though climbing onto the back of a horse.

  “There really is nowhere to hide, is there, Frost?” the little man said, the tiger moving beneath him, muscles taut beneath its fur. The fire flickered in the man’s eyes like candle flames.

  The winter man stared at the Keen Keeng, not looking at him. “Nowhere, Li.”

  “Then I am with you.”

  Frost tilted his head, icicle hair clinking together. “That is very good to know. We may have a difficult time leaving the city.”

  Blue Jay knew the name. Li, Guardian of Fire.

  “If you’ll allow me,” Li said, gesturing toward the Keen Keeng.

  Frost nodded. “By all means.”

  The tiger-rider raised his hand and fire rushed up from it, forging itself into a flaming blade. Li spurred the tiger forward. The great cat bounded toward the Keen Keeng and Li swung the fire-sword, decapitating it in a single, searing stroke.

  The Keen Keeng’s head fell to the ground.

  Silence ensued. For a long moment those gathered in the courtyard only looked at one another, ignoring the restaurant’s patrons completely. The two Mazikeen stroked their braided beards. Grin stood with Cheval and Chorti, who were checking one another over for injuries. Li stood beside Blue Jay, across from Frost.

  Word had traveled faster than reality. Frost had been planning to begin a rebellion, to gather up those who would fight back, who would hunt the Hunters. But now it had begun in earnest.

  A soft clapping broke the silence.

  Lycaon continued the derisive, almost mocking applause as he approached the circle.

  “Well done. Now leave. Begone from here, valiant idiots.”

  Frost glared at him, blue-white ice eyes narrowed. “You are Borderkind, wolf. They will come for you, in time.”

  “Not if you stop them first,” Lycaon said.

  “But you will not help us, even to help yourself?”

  “Some of us still live here,” the werewolf growled, and his cruel features became darker, more bestial, as though he might transform at any moment. “Most of you Borderkind are nomads, but I’m no wanderer. I have a home. And I want you out of it, before they destroy it to reach you.”

  Blue Jay chuckled softly. Rocking gently from side to side he stepped toward Lycaon. The rain spattered his face and the feathers in his hair danced in the breeze.

  “Coward,” the trickster said. “You’ll regret this. If not at the hands of the Hunters, then at my hands, when this is over.”

  “As it may be,” Lycaon said, and he raised his hand and gestured to the door.

  One by one, they walked out of Lycaon’s Kitchen and into the street, half a block from the Latin Quarter’s marketplace.

  Blue Jay glanced up immediately, scanning the rooftops and dark windows again. A pair of huge black birds took flight, streaking toward the city center. But they were not alone. At least half a dozen others perched on various ledges and rooftops, watching them.

  “Strigae,” Cheval said, coming up beside him.

  Blue Jay nodded.

  “Watching for the Keen Keengs to emerge,” Li said.

  “Or for us,” Blue Jay replied. “They may have been tracking us from the moment we passed the watchtowers.”

  The two Mazikeen raised their hoods, hiding their gray faces and haunting eyes.

  “There are Hunters in the city. Jezi-Baba and the Manticore. We have sensed Perytons as well.”

  Frost shook his head. “Ty’Lis grows bold, sending out Hunters that can only be commanded by Atlanteans.”

  “We haven’t the numbers to face them,” Cheval said, shifting her feet nervously, her equine nature coming to the fore.

  Blue Jay had seen a wounded spirit in her eyes-her heart had never healed after her husband’s murder. Much of the time she was the quiet, pensive widow, but all too often she wore the mask of a brittle, imperious bitch. He thought it might be best if she kept the facade up at all times; if Cheval drew too much attention or sympathy from the rest of them, it could endanger them all when the time came to fight. As it was, he wondered how effective Chorti would be in the midst of a real battle. If all he cared about was Cheval’s safety, he would be useless to them.

  We’ll find out in time, Blue Jay thought. All too soon, I expect.

  He studied the Strigae. “We’ll have to face them in time, numbers or not. But I’d prefer it not be today.” He looked at Frost. “We’ve got all the help I think we’re going to find in Perinthia. Could be we’ll find more on the road south. For now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Frost nodded, starting northward. The other Borderkind followed, heading toward the edge of the city. It was the opposite direction from their destination, but for now the quickest route out of Perinthia was the smartest.

  As they began to run, the Strigae took flight, pacing them.

  “Pardon me, sirs,” Grin said, long arms at his sides as he loped along. “You know we’re never going to get away from the Hunters as long as those damned birds are watching us.”

  Blue Jay smiled grimly. “Not in this world.”

  The tiger trotted along the road with Li on its back. The little man had gained on the rest of them almost immediately, the tiger swift on its feet, even by the standards of myth. Now Li and his tiger turned together. Fire guttered from Li’s eyes.

  “Trickster, you wish us to cross the border?”

  Cheval laughed softly. “That is what we do, is it not?”

  Troubled, Li frowned, and the flames in his eyes burned higher. “I have not been through the Veil in a great many years.”

  The Grindylow shrugged. “Never done it, myself. Not once. My sort can do it, mind, but I never had the urge.”

  The strange parade of creatures turned onto a side street, threaded beneath a half-toppled column and through what had once been a Roman bath. Several times they spotted figures in alleys or windows of the Latin Quarter, but the people were not going to trouble them. Only the Strigae pursued them. The eyes of the Hunters.

  The Mazikeen moved in silence, hands together in front of them like monks. They seemed only to walk, but covered more ground in a single step than was possible.

  Blue Jay caught up to Li. “You’ll love it, my f
riend. Their world is more corrupt than ever, but still beautiful, even so. Still stormy with love and lies and passion.”

  The trickster glanced around and then faltered. He came to a halt, and one by one the other Borderkind did the same. Chorti snuffled at the ground and then the air, baring metal fangs at the Strigae that circled high above them. The Mazikeen had their heads together, nearly touching, communing silently in their sorcerous way.

  “Where’s Frost?” Blue Jay asked.

  Even as he did so there came a cry from above-a shriek that was not quite a bird’s scream. The trickster turned and looked up just in time to see a Strigae fall, end over end, toward the ground. It shattered upon impact, body splintering into fragments of black feathers and ice.

  Up on the edge of the roof, Frost crouched. He shot out a hand and a spike of ice extended instantly from his fingertips and impaled a Strigae in mid-flight. It screamed, blood mixing with the rain, and then it glided lower and lower to crash to the street, dead.

  Frost leaped from the roof and simply flowed down toward them, merging with the rain, becoming an avalanche of snow and ice, and then re-forming on the ground only inches away from Blue Jay.

  “Beautiful,” Cheval Bayard said, sliding closer to Frost. She reached out to run her fingertips along the sharp edge of his shoulder in fascination.

  The winter man pulled away and glared at her, then regarded the others. “There is no choice. We cross. Only long enough to escape the spies…”

  He gestured skyward, where several other Strigae still circled, another joining them.

  Blue Jay watched the sky. “Are you sure that’s wise? All of us in one place, in the mundane world, we’re sure to draw attention. You saw what happened the last time.”

  “Perhaps we’ll be lucky,” Frost replied.

  The two Mazikeen stared at him, eyes narrowed, pale flesh drawn over the bones of their skulls.

  Some scent on the air alarmed Chorti. He ambled over to Cheval and grunted, crouching at her side. The wild man pointed a metal talon to the south, back the way they’d come.

  “It’s decided, then,” Cheval said. “We cross. We’ll make our way to the ocean, then come back through the Veil on the bank of the Atlantic River.”